


Dust Devils

by Sharlot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Gen, Harm to Children, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 132,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharlot/pseuds/Sharlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters fight time, a vengeful spirit, and a wind demon in order to save a little girl from the monster who's stalking her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wild Cyclone

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally published April-July 2012 on Fanfiction.net. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta readers, Beckydaspatz, Numpty, and NongPradu. I am deeply indebted to them for their input and invaluable contributions to this story. The reason you are reading such a clean copy is due to their vigilance. Any remaining errors are solely my responsibility.
> 
> A huge shout-out goes to BlackIceWitch who created such a gorgeous poster for the story. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> These events follow on the heels of those in Season Two's "Born Under a Bad Sign", so assume spoilers up to that point, especially for that episode. The story is extremely Dean-centric. All original characters are used to support and further Dean's journey and are not the focus of the story. However, original characters and secondary characters bear the burden of the POV in the first few chapters due to the incapacitation of both Winchesters.
> 
> The rape/non-con is non-graphically depicted and does not involve either Winchester.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for choosing to read my story.

__

__

_February 10, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Plump raindrops snapped on mud-clotted sod and clanged against the metallic construction equipment and vehicles littering the site.

“We ain’t gonna get much done today, not if it don’t quit rainin’. Jesus, ain’t it ever gonna stop? Been like this for days. Cold rain, too!” Hank cupped his calloused hands, blowing warm air and rubbing them together. He cast his eyes about, following the line of the horizon where the purples, browns and greens of the wintered plains met the bleak, bubbling gray of the sky.

Seth snuffed the wet morning air and blatted a huff of agreement, watching his breath-mist whorl away from him. “Rain don’t matter as much as them OSHA boys. Didn’t Gerry say they were ‘sposed to be here today? If they find anything wrong what caused them accidents we might not be workin’ for a while. Was that their black-beauty parked by the trailer? That them? Maybe they’re already here pokin’ around.”

“They ain’t gonna find anything. What we got here is a bunch of damn klutzes. Nothin’ more.”

“Yeah, I s’pose.” Seth bobbed his head and huddled further into his jacket, putting his back to the wind and rain. “I don’t care what Doc said about Matt finally playin’ with a full deck again. He’s talkin’ out his ass, as far as I know—probably delirious or something. It’s windy, I’ll grant ya that. Always is, but there ain’t no damn way any crazy-ass, black cloud pushed him off the roof. OSHA boys wouldn’t even a’come if Matt hadn’t yapped his fool head off to the papers like he did.”

Hank hurked a gob of spit. “Yeah, well, everyone’s gonna be here soon. Between the rain and those OSHA morons, we’re likely to get held up. C’mon, let’s get goin’ before the shit hits the fan.”

The men walked to the east end of the site where the skeleton of the strip-mall rose from the prairie grass. Seth’s eyes narrowed in the half-light. “What the hell?” He fisted Hank’s jacket and pointed. There was little need for the directive, however, since debris blanketed the area. “Hank?” He jibbed, stumbling over his feet. “What the fuck happened?”

Hank shrugged away from Seth’s groping hands and ran toward the building. “Jesus, Seth. No way was there a twister last night. In February? We’d ‘a heard the sirens.” He glanced around at the damage. The back end of the building had shorn away, half of its roof collapsing onto the foundation below.

“It took the whole fucking back of the building!” Seth blew out a whistling breath of air. “It sure as hell looks like wind-damage. See that?” He pointed to a splintered joist impaling one of the support columns.

“Jesus H…” Hank shook his head in disbelief.

He heaved a chunk of the collapsed studding out of the way and moved into the building. Once inside, he tripped over the tarp they’d used to protect the building from the incessant rain that had been falling the past week. Throwing out his hands to catch his fall, they mashed against a yielding, fleshy lump under the plastic. Confused, he pulled the tarp away.

“Seth!” He recoiled, horrified. “Seth! We got a body here! Jesus!”

Seth clambered over the broken wall and helped Hank tear away the tarp. “Who is it, Hank? Ain’t one of the guys.” He moved away some of the young man’s damp, chestnut hair in search of a pulse.

Hank adjusted his hardhat and scratched the base of his neck. “Dunno. He alive?”

“Yeah he is.” Seth nodded. “He’s breathing, but he’s out, just like the others were.” He noticed Hank going through the man’s pockets. “What the hell you doin’, Hank? Don’t be movin’ him. You nuts?”

“I got it.” Hank took the unconscious man’s wallet from his back pocket, studying its contents. “Well ain’t this poetical.” He handed Seth the ID badge with a snort.

“Sam Ulrich, OSHA Inspector.” Seth read aloud. “What do you ‘spose he was doin’ here all alone before dawn?”

“Not a clue, but he’s a damn fool. Dumb-shit wasn’t even wearing a hardhat. OSHA.” Hank loosed a derisive grunt. “Ain’t this just poetical.”

“You said that already, Hank.” Seth checked the man’s pulse again. “Well, he may be a damn fool, but we ain’t gonna let him just die.”

“You got that right.” Hank pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

* *

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel Livingston slammed the screen door of the farmhouse with a hollow, squeaking bang as she did every morning on her way out to do her chores. And her mother hollered for her to be quiet and act like a lady just as _she_ did every morning on her daughter’s way out to do her chores.

The child set her pail down and stuck her forefinger in her mouth, swishing it around and plucking it out with a juicy pop. She held it up, testing the wind while she surveyed the morning. Her eyes followed the hopeful blush of the sky as pink and turquoise blended with gold on the eastern horizon. But the sun’s promise faltered when the limpid disk failed to soften the stark, slate-gray plain below. Florabel’s world, from horizon to porch, resembled a charcoal drawing, varying shades of gray dusting the landscape, broken only by the darker silhouettes of distant, hardscrabble farms with their lifeless barns and empty silos. Her foot traced a lazy, looping pattern in the dark dust, its fine grains the consistency of talcum powder.

The seeming silence was pointedly broken by the reverberating, metallic knock of the windmill as it churned in the ceaseless swish of the wind—a wind that sought out and infested everything with its mischief. It wailed like a banshee as it struck the tarpaper roof of the chicken coop and whistled in the eaves as it clipped the farmhouse.

Florabel wiggled her finger. She wasn’t sure what the wet pointer was supposed to find. Other than some blowing dirt clinging to the small digit, nothing happened, of course. But her papa had always greeted the morning with his wet finger held in the wind, so she did it now.

Studying the vacant landscape before her, she tried to imagine it like her mama said it had once been. But she couldn’t. Green prairie grass and wildflowers were unimaginable for the seven year old. She wiped her gritty finger on her bib-overalls, leaving a smudge her mother would scold her for later.

She felt a deep rumble in her lungs and coughed roughly, spitting out a brown, gritty paste. If she kept that up her mama would rub her throat and chest with skunk-oil and turpentine, and she hated the smell. She snuffled her nose, cleared her throat, and studied her finger some more. Even if she couldn’t tell anything from sticking it in the wind, she reckoned today would be like all the other days she’d known—windy, drab and dusty.

Sweeping up her pail, she jumped off the stairs of the veranda and hopscotched along the path to the barn, being ever so careful to keep the contents of her pail from spilling. More dust swirled off the top of the chicken coop and sparkled when the cool morning sun struck the silica in the dirt as it tumbled into the air. Florabel gasped and swallowed, watching the dust glisten and twinkle as it spiraled away on the wind.

“Fairy dust!” She craned her neck, watching in awe. “Molly! Fairies was here!”

Molly clucked her excitement and bobbed toward the young girl as Florabel opened the gate to the chicken yard. The other chickens caught sight of the swinging pail and followed Molly.

“Yessir, Molly! Fairies was here in the night!” Florabel reached into her pail and flicked a crawling centipede in Molly’s direction. The bird lunged after it, neck stretched to near breaking, gobbling hungrily. “You know what that a-means? It means good luck!” She gave the bird an enthusiastic nod. “It means rain’s a-comin’ an’ Mama’s gonna be happy agin! Why, maybe even Slaid and Old Jeb will be able to plant this year! Oh Molly, won’t that be dandy?”

The chickens clucked, and Florabel grabbed a handful of squiggling centipedes, scattering them like rose petals above the gaping beaks of the hungry birds. She giggled, watching the birds step on each other in a greedy competition, scrabbling like unmarried girls vying for the bride’s tossed bouquet. Their fussing kicked up the dirt in the yard, and Florabel watched the billowing cloud sail across the yard and pelt the side of the barn.

“Where’s Matilda?” She furrowed her brow, looking over the brood of chickens. “She was here yesterday.” She peered around trying to spot the missing chicken. “Matilda!”

A forlorn, creaking bang interrupted her search. Florabel hushed the chickens, listening. She heard it again. It sounded like the barn door. Upending her pail, she thumped it several times, raining dozens of centipedes down on the flock and sending the chickens scurrying as they chased after the bounty.

“Mama’s gonna fret at me somethin’ fierce!” She always made sure she shut the barn door but good. She knew better. With an assumed adult air, she echoed her world-weary mother, eyes heavenward. “One thing after another, Lord! I’ll be back for the eggs in a minute.” She left the chickens to their breakfast, rounded the barn and stopped short.

The cracked door hung off most of its hinges, loose enough for the constant wind to twit and rattle it against the buckling face of the barn. Florabel gaped and stepped over several fallen roof shingles. Tugging one of her long, sun-paled braids, she tip-toed into the building. “Oh my goodness!” Florabel’s head swiveled as she surveyed the damage.

Old bridles and saddles spilled from the tack room, the walls of which had collapsed.   A couple of the beams anchoring the loft had snapped, causing the floor above to list dangerously. Strange wooden planks and fragments, still golden and fresh, lay strewn among the older pieces of the barn. She picked up a chunk of the new wood and studied it.   It didn’t come from the barn. Even the nails were foreign and strange to her. Bales of hay and feed lay scattered everywhere. Poor Penny, the milk cow, mooed her distress as Florabel ventured further into the barn.

As the young girl assessed the damage, punctuated with many gasps of _Merciful Lordy!,_ she spied a man lying at the back of the barn, hay haphazardly covering him and weaving through his sandy hair. Another drunken rail-rider, no doubt. Wasn’t the first time she’d found a poor hobo in the barn seeking shelter for the night.

“You shouldn’t be here, Mister!” She wagged her finger at the man, marching over to him, hands on her hips. “You need to wake up and git a move on!” She used her best grown-up voice, stamping her foot by his head to put the fear of Jesus in him. The man never stirred a muscle. Florabel knelt down and poked him. “You wake up, and scoot, y’hear?” She pointed to the door for emphasis. When the man didn’t so much as twitch, she bent low enough for her braids to sweep across his face and sniffed, expecting the tell-tale aroma of whiskey, but she didn’t smell anything. She waited a moment. “You sick, Mister?”

When the man made no response, Florabel took on the part of ‘doctor’ with a full gusto.   She pantomimed taking a pocket-watch from her waistcoat and put her finger to his wrist. After mulling over his vital signs she poked him in the ribs. “Does this hurt, Mister?” The man made no answer and his wrist flopped limply on the ground when the ‘doctor’ dropped his hand in her haste. She turned and barked orders.

“Nurse Monroe!” She added to her cast of characters. “Please fetch me my spephiscope!” When the nurse didn’t move fast enough, Dr. Livingston’s words became a stern command. “Hurry! He’s almost dead!”   Florabel’s eyes followed the ‘nurse’ and then returned to her patient with renewed concern. She held her braid out of the way and swooped down dramatically, listening, ear to his chest. She lurched up with her diagnosis. “It could be Dust Pneumonia or…” she bent down for a second listen, “…maybe an ague!” Ungentle fingers pried each of her patient’s eyes open in turn, and she nodded and harrumphed with some inner medical secret as his vacant, amber-jade irises meandered back and forth in slow wandering sweeps. Satisfied with the state of his eyeballs, she moved onto his nostrils, prying them apart and giving the inner workings of his nose a thorough once-over. “Ain’t Diphtheria!” She let go, allowing his nostrils to contract to their original size. Her demeanor shifted again.

“Oh, oh thank you Lordy Jesus!” She switched roles, becoming the man’s distraught ‘wife’. She pressed her palms together in fervent supplication and rocked, heel to toe. “You have to save him, Doc! He’s all I got!” She scrunched her face and began to ‘weep’ pitifully.

“It’s okay, Ms. Myrtle,” the ‘doctor’ said. “I’ll save him!” She sat back, supporting her elbow with her hand, tapping her temple while she thought deep, medical thoughts. After a moment, she ceremoniously put her hands to his brow to check for a deadly fever and stopped in surprise. Her lips pursed, and all the play and make-believe fell away as she touched his cheeks, sensing the very real heat radiating from them.

“Hey Mister.” She shook the man, trying to wake him. As her eyes swept over him, she noticed a white bandage peeking out from his torn shirt. Moving the torn fabric to the side, she stripped the gauze off his left shoulder, revealing a red-rimmed hole filled with custardy pus. Angry red lines branched from the wound’s creamy center, one stretching across the pad of his chest. She grimaced at the sweet smell and patted the bandage back in place. Standing, she hesitated a moment before running from the barn. Tearing up the path to the farmhouse she wailed for her mother.

“Mama! Mama! They’s a strange man dyin’ in the barn!”

* *

  _February 10, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma  
_

“Hank rode with him. Dudn’t know him, though. He came over from OSHA to inspect because of what happened to Matt and the others.” The EMT helped to move the senseless man onto the ER gurney. “Hank and Seth found him. You should’a seen the site, Doc. Looked like a twister came and took out the whole back half of the building.”

“Stranger things have been known to happen, Mitch.” Doc peeled back his patient’s eyelids, shining his penlight several times in each.

“He looks to have some broken ribs, but I didn’t see any evidence of head trauma. He’s pretty cold, though. Dunno how long he lay out there. Coulda been all night. We put a thermal on him in the rig.” Mitch patted the blanket.

“Well, we’ll get him warm and do some scans and see what’s what.” Doc Haffner drawled, good natured and unhurried. He stuck a thermometer in the man’s ear. “94-degrees.”

“He ain’t even shivering, Doc. That normal?” Mitch asked.

“Mild hypothermia. He should be shivering.” Doc scrubbed his chin. “They only stop when it’s _bad_ bad. He ain’t been awake at all?”

“Unresponsive, Doc, the whole time. Pupil dilation’s good, though, but he don’t react to pain or cold.” Mitch cut off the man’s shirt, revealing angry, mottled bruising on his right side. “You don’t s’pose it’s like Matt, do ya?”

“I don’t s’pose nothin’ yet, boy. Let’s not jump no guns.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just weird, you know?”

“What do we got here?” Doc pried open the man’s hand, revealing a jagged scrap of flannel and a strange charm affixed to a broken leather strap. He held it up and studied the metallic, horned head. “Ain’t that odd, now. What do you make of it? Lucky charm?”

Mitch inspected it, his fingers playing with the charm dangling from the strap. “Huh, don’t look like nothing an OSHA Inspector would have.”

“Whatever it is, he didn’t want to give it up. Practically had to break his fingers to open that hand. Let’s keep it with his things. Abby will tend to it until he’s awake or at least until we can give it to his emergency contact.”

“Where’s Abby this morning?” Mitch looked around for the gorgeously plump nurse with the china doll complexion he enjoyed flirting with every day.

“Well now, I sent her out for some coffee. Wasn’t like I was expectin’ an emergency. In fact,” he flipped open his cell phone, “better tell her to bring you and Hank a cup, too, since you boys are both here.”

“You should call Bekker.” Mitch palpated the patient’s right side. “This boy’s gonna need some X-rays.”

“Put the thermal back on him and get him warming, then we’ll call in the cavalry.” Doc clapped his arm around Mitch as he reached for the blanket. “How’s your mama doin’, anyhow, Mitch? She still plannin’ on makin’ those pies for the raffle?”

* *

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Emma Livingston crooked her head, wiping gritty sweat onto the upper sleeve of her work-dress despite the chill in the kitchen.   It was a monotonous daily chore, but the dust had to be cleaned away. She leaned back, resting on her heels and wiped the cold, soapy water on her apron. Her hair needed combing and she hadn’t given thought to breakfast yet. Not that there was much beyond last night’s cornbread and beans. She didn’t care about her hunger. She’d get on all right. It was her child that mattered. Florabel was far too thin, and she’d heard the girl coughing when she went out to feed the chickens. She lingered a moment in thought, rubbing at the hard angles and frown-lines on her face, then went back to scrubbing the floor. The one good thing about the dust—it was a useful abrasive. She never had problems cleaning troublesome spots these days. Of course that same dust had chafed away almost everything else she’d ever loved. She could do with dirty floors.

“Y’ain’t takin’ my girl from me, too.” She spoke to the muddy soap on the floor. “Y’cain’t have her. Y’got everything else.” The young woman sat up when she heard her daughter’s shrill voice calling from outside. “What now?” she asked the ceiling. Bracing her hands on the floor, she rose with a slow, spent groan as Florabel barreled up the stairs of the old porch, slamming the screen door as she entered.

“Mama, you got t’come quick! They’s a man in the barn. I think he’s a-dyin’! He won’t wake up an’ he ain’t even drunk. Come on, Mama.” She tugged at her mother’s thin arm.

Emma’s stiff legs popped as her daughter yanked her out the door and down the path. She used her free hand to shield her eyes against the gritty sting of the wind as cold dust devils roiled through the barnyard. Sheltered from the wind by the barn, Emma dropped her hand and saw the damage to the door.

“What happened, here?” She pulled Florabel back and placed the child behind her.

“I dunno, Mama. Maybe they was a storm or somethin’. It’s all tore up inside, too. I closed the door last night. I know I did, Mama.”

“It’s all right baby girl.” Emma entered the barn, stopping short, anger and dread skirting her face. She wrung her hands in her apron. “What more?” Her eyes pinballed around the barn, calculating each gouge, rip, and break. “I cain’t take much more.” She clasped her bony hands to her lips in angry prayer.

“Mama, he’s lyin’ over there.” Florabel tip-toed to her patient and waved to her mother. “See?”

Emma’s lips thinned and her eyes went dead with fury. She strode to the unconscious man, tripping on a piece of wood that didn’t belong there. She picked it up and did a double take, searching the barn again to see where it might have come from. After a brief glance, she gave it no further thought and bent over the man.

“You, wake up and git out a-here!” She shook him.

“Mama don’t!” Florabel kneeled by his shoulder. “He’s hurt. See?”   She peeled back the bandage revealing the syrupy infection. “He’s awful hot, Mama. I think he’s real, real sick.”

Emma hauled her daughter away from the unconscious stranger and examined his shoulder, her intake of breath an audible hiss. She fingered the edges of the wound and ran her thin hand across his brow.

“Florabel, I want you to run over to the bunk-house and git Slaid and Old Jeb here. And then I want you to go to the house and stay there, y’hear me?”

“But Mama…”

“Quick as a jackrabbit, baby girl, now go!”

Florabel stiffened against the hard edge of her mother’s command. “Yes Mama.”

Without another word, she turned and ran as fast as her young legs could take her to the old bunkhouse, calling for their last remaining farmhands.

* *

  _February 10, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

“It’s the same thing, ain’t it Doc?” Gerry asked. “And where’s the other one? There was two of ‘em at my office yesterday. Is his partner ‘round about?”

“Hell, I dunno, yet.” Doc jawed the words, taking his sweet time, scratching his grey beard. “This boy ain’t even come to, yet. We’ll have to see. Hank rode in with this fellow. He didn’t mention any partner, and there ain’t anyone other than Hank in the waiting room.”

“What if this boy comes to like the others? How long did it take ‘em to really come around? A week? These are OSHA boys, Doc. _OSHA_. I got a building to get up. Hell, not just get up, I gotta practically start from scratch. Half the damn building’s gone. I can’t afford any more setbacks, Doc.” The contractor blew out a stiff breath. “I ain’t tryin’ to be callous. I’m worried all the way ‘round is all.”

“I hear ya, Gerry. I just can’t give you an answer I don’t got, yet,” Doc said. “Let’s see what happens. If OSHA calls askin’ about these boys, well I’ll come right out and tell ‘em what’s what.   Until then, you just keep doin’ what you gotta do, I guess. I ain’t gonna call OSHA myself until this kid wakes up and wants me to. Abby’s callin’ his emergency contact we found in his wallet. That’s good enough for me.”

Gerry huffed a breath of relief. “Yeah, okay Doc. Sounds good. So he’s doin’ okay otherwise?”

“Two broken ribs and some bumps and bruises. He was hypothermic from his night out in the rain, but he’s warming up nicely. X-rays and scans show his head’s fine, but he’s senseless just the same. We’ll have to see what he remembers when he wakes up.”

“His partner has to be around here somewhere,” Gerry said. “They were actin’ like an old married couple when they were talkin’ to me yesterday, snipin’ and givin’ each other the stink-eye. They’re kinda young to be that pissy, but whatever.   None of my business. I’ll have Seth and Hank search the place again to make sure he ain’t wrapped in another tarp or something, but there was a lot of folk crawlin’ around the place when the ambulance came. I’d a’thought they’d find anything if there was something to find. But I don’t know where he coulda gotten to.”

“All right.” Doc nodded. “I gotta get this boy in a room, and you need to go make sure your site is safe, Gerry. I ain’t equipped to take on a mass problem like this. I don’t want no more patients from your site. We’re gonna have to start callin’ in some real help if this don’t stop. Y’hear me?”

The contractor nodded. “I hear you loud and clear Doc. Everyone’s following the safety procedures to the letter. I swear it. I don’t know how this happened. Maybe what Matt and the boys said after they finally come around to their senses is true.”

“What?” Doc said. “That some hell-bound ghost attacked them? They were talkin’ about ghosts jabbering hocus pocus to make black whirlwinds appear and attack them. C’mon, Gerry, you ain’t _that_ dumb. It’s 2007, not the damn Dark Ages.”

* *

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

“What is this?” Slaid’s old-world accent sent shivers up Florabel’s back, and she moved behind her mother for safety. The farmhand frightened her, not just because of his strange speech and his ugly fingers, but because she’d seen him turn into a monster once. Old Jeb had laughed and told her there weren’t any such things as monsters, but she knew otherwise. At any rate, monster or not, he helped her mama with the farm-work, so she shut up about it, like her mama insisted.

She tugged Jeb over to the sick man who lay amidst the broken beams and shingles. “I found him this morning all by myself, Old Jeb.” She gripped the older man’s hand, looking up at his weather-worn face. Decades spent in the sun and wind had left it the texture of a coffee-colored raisin. “He ain’t got Diphtheria or Dust Pneumonia. I done made sure.”

“That’s a good thing, doll.” The old man petted her braids and gave Emma a concerned nod when she pulled back the bandage on the stranger’s shoulder, showing them the wound.

Jeb coughed in surprise. “Someone tried to fill this boy with daylight, Em!”

“I can see that, Jeb.” Emma swallowed against the smell, replacing the bandage with quick fingers.

“What’s that mean, Mama?”

“Florabel, I told you to go back to the house,” Emma said, too distracted to scold the child.

“But Mama, I found him. I don’t want him to die!”

“He’s nothing but a no account drifter,” Slaid said. “Or a grifter, ya? Someone taught him good lessons, BANG!” He pantomimed firing a gun.

“You mean someone shot him?” Florabel ran for a closer look.

“Hush, child.” Emma pressed a hand to the girl’s chest, halting her. She stood and wiped the dust and hay from her dress.

“Well he ain’t from around these parts, that’s for sure.” Jeb eyed the man up and down. “Look at him. I ain’t seen nobody that well fed in a month of Mondays.”

“Ha, big circus strong-man, ya?”   Slaid flexed his emaciated biceps as though he had something there to flex. “Probably out of work now that Prohibition is over. Big mobster. Dangerous. It looks like he fought the devil in here last night.” He knocked three times on one of the broken beams and spit over his left shoulder to avoid the Evil Eye. “You should let me and Jeb take him away, Ms. Livingston.”

“And do what? Y’cain’t just take him out behind the barn and put him down like a sick dog, Slaid. It ain’t Christian.”

“Slaid is right about one thing, though, Em. He could be dangerous. Maybe we should take him to Hirum and let him deal with this boy,” Jeb said.

“I ain’t turnin’ him over to the law until I know he earned it. Sheriff Burnett’s got enough to deal with. Let’s git him up to the house and if Jesus wants him, then so be it. But he’s someone’s son, and I ain’t a-gonna make his mama mourn if she don’t have to. Folks has lost enough already. I ain’t a-gonna…” Her chin trembled and she took a moment to compose herself. “I ain’t a-gonna bury someone’s son if’n I can do somethin’ about it. Now you boys help me.” Her voice left no room for debate. “An’ careful with his shoulder, now.”

Jeb mumbled as he bent down. “My old ma always told me they was two theories to arguin’ with a woman…an’ neither one works.” He nodded to Slaid. “Let’s git this boy on up to the house.”

The unconscious man made no sound or movement as the two farmhands lifted him as gently as they could and worked their way to the Livingston’s farmhouse. Florabel and Emma tried to shield the men from the dust as it billowed and scraped across the yard. Emma untied her apron and draped it over the sick man’s face, his tears leaving dusty tracks running toward his ears in an attempt to wash the blowing dirt away from his sensitive eyes.

“Big, strong man.” Slaid grunted under the weight. “Circus man. You’ll see,” he said. “Devil Fighter. Very dangerous.”

 


	2. Two Good Men

__

_February 10, 2007—Harvelle’s Roadhouse  
_

Ellen adjusted the cell phone, switching ears and cradling the receiver against her shoulder while she ran a wet rag over the countertop. “Now, Bobby Singer, slow down before you throw a clot. I can hear your veins poppin’ from here. Who? Dean? No. Last I spoke to him was more’n a week ago when he was lookin’ for Sam, but I haven’t heard from either one of them boys since. Had to find out from Jo what went down.” She paused in mid-wipe and gripped the phone with a sigh. “She’s fine. Won’t come back home, though. Stubborn as a damn mule.” She closed her weary eyes, retreating into her personal pain for a moment. Bobby pulled her back abruptly. Her eyes snapped opened and widened. “Who called?” She leaned against the counter and switched ears again. “Sam’s where? Where Oklahoma? Never heard of it. Is he gonna be all right? And they don’t know who Dean is? No sign of him? Have you tried his cell?” Ellen rolled her eyes. “I know you ain’t an ‘idgit’, Bobby. Well, you are, but I’m sure you called his cell.” Her smoky voice crackled with humor. “I was just trying to cover all the bases.” She spotted Ash sitting at a nearby table with his computer in front of him and moved his way. “How far out are you? Well, get your ass down here and pick me up. I’ll ride along.” She snapped Ash with her rag and motioned toward the bar. “I ain’t takin’ French leave, Singer. Ash will watch the Roadhouse for me while we’re gone.”

Ash rubbed his chest where Ellen’s rag dinged him, drained the last of his PBR and burped. “Careful now. Ellen. This is prime rib you’re damaging.” He massaged his nipples in wounded indignation and clapped his laptop shut. “Where you goin’?”

“One sec, Bobby.” She turned to Ash. “Boise City, Oklahoma. I need you to mind the bar. And don’t be drinking all my stock, neither. I’ll kick your ass, don’t think I won’t.”

“Didn’t someone, somewhere, sign some proclamation against slavery a while back?” Ash grabbed his laptop off the table.

“Yeah, same fellow as signed a proclamation against no-account moochers.” Ellen pointed to the bar. “Now, move your ass.”  After Ash shuffled off, Ellen pushed in his vacated chair with her foot, lobbing the rag onto the bar.

“All right, Singer, I’ll be ready by the time you get here.” She stopped while Bobby spoke, putting her hand on her hip and dithering as she listened before going behind the bar again. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. I care about them boys same as you.” She ran her hand along the smooth, well-worn grain of the bar-top. “I know it wasn’t Sam’s fault. But I can’t understand why in the hell they weren’t warded before now, is all.” She snatched a shot-glass, placed it right-side-up on the bar-top and grabbed a whiskey bottle.

“Well once we find Dean and sort this out, don’t think for one moment I won’t ink their asses myself if I have to.” She tugged the collar of her shirt down, studying the anti-possession warding symbol tattooed above her heart. “Why John never took care of this before now is beyond me. He was one of the most obsessed, hard-assed sonsabitches I ever did know, but he was terrible reckless at times, especially with them boys. You’d think he’d ‘a warded them years ago.” She poured herself a double-shot and downed it, allowing the slow burn to spice her natural husk. “Well, they ain’t getting a week older before them symbols are permanent once I get a hold of ‘em,” she said. “And it ain’t just themselves the tatts will be protectin’.”

She stood for a moment considering the whiskey bottle in her hand, shrugged and took a generous pull right from the bottle. “You just get here as quick as you can and let’s help them boys.”

* *

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

“Mama, why’s his eyelashes so long?” Florabel sat on the old, post-rope bed next to the unconscious man and placed her forefinger on his eye, trying to gauge the length of the lashes. Her mother bustled around the room, arms full of strips of linen, towels, bedding and supplies. When Florabel didn’t get an immediate response from the distracted adult, she asked again. “How come his eyelashes is so long, Mama?”

“Because God wanted them that a-way,” Emma said, heedless as she dodged Slaid and Jeb who loitered around, not knowing where they needed to stand or what they should be doing. She set her burden down and took some ointment and medicine bottles from her apron pocket.

“Why’s his shirt all tore up?” She took the man’s hand, trying to situate it comfortably on his chest for him. “Look Mama, he’s got a ring! See?”

“Mm hmm,” Emma said, too busy to pay attention. She bumped into Jeb again as she tried to remove the man’s boots. “You boys git out from under foot and make yourselves useful. Jeb, I want you to help me git him down past his union suit. Slaid, take the bucket and fetch some water and set it to boiling. Florabel, hop down from there and keep your dirty hands off him until you’ve washed up. Why don’t you go on out with Slaid for that water? You don’t need to be seein’ him until he’s settled under the covers.”

“Ya, me and the little one will fetch the water.” Slaid smiled and winked at the child. He stretched out his hand and wiggled his fingers. Florabel went frigid, seeing the long, bony digits. She twisted her fists in her mother’s dress.

“No mama! I wanna stay here.” Florabel’s voice pitched sharply as panic set in. “I’ll stand in the corner. I won’t even look at his skivvies. He needs me to stay, ‘cause you’s a-gonna scare him. He don’t know you, yet. He ‘members me from the barn. He needs me.” The young girl ran to the corner of the room and put her back to the action. “I’m not peekin’, Mama. See? I’m not peekin’!”

Emma’s lips tightened, confused by her daughter’s behavior. “Florabel, you do as I say and go git the water. He ain’t a-gonna wake up yet. Now go on with Slaid.”

Florabel’s teeth chattered as she skittered away from Slaid. “Mama. Mama, no.” Her breaths came in puffs. “Mama, I’ll go make a bread and milk poultice for his shoulder. Like you done for me when I cut my arm. You want me to do that instead?”

Emma relented, too harried to argue. “All right, make sure you put plenty of milk in it and wrap it up good in cheesecloth and knock before you come a-bargin’ back in.” Florabel scurried from the room.

Slaid watched her run and shrugged.   He turned toward the man in the bed, scoffing. “Drifter gets good treatment, ya? Pup with no home? Fought the Devil in the barn,” he said with a sneer. “Maybe didn’t fight. Maybe he called the Devil or the Devil came with him, hmm? _Ördög_ Friend.” He knocked three times on the doorway and turned to spit.

Emma put up her hand before he could finish. “Don’t you _dare_ think about spittin’ in this house. Now quit standin’ around jabberin’ your nonsense. I need water boiled. You git enough to fill the big black pot to full.” She shooed him off and shut the door.

Jeb chuckled and ran his hand over his hollow, old cheeks. “Land, Emma, that girl sure don’t like Slaid all of a sudden. She’s as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs whenever he’s around.” He grinned as he unbuttoned the fevered man’s shirt. “She tol’ me how Slaid had growled at her one time, said he turned into a right monster.”

Emma shook her head. “Well, you know how Florabel is with them silly notions of hers. If I remember correctly she also said they was a leprechaun sleepin’ in Penny’s stall last spring.” She clicked her tongue, exasperated. “She’s got a powerful imagination an’ she’s just a-scared of the way Slaid talks.” She gingerly removed the man’s bad arm from his sleeve as Jeb pulled the rest of the tattered shirt loose. “That and he’s just plain sour and coarse,” she said with a snort. “He probably did growl at her if she done something annoying; you know how the child can jabber on non-stop. But Slaid done many a good turn, too. They’s no denyin’ it. He took care of Florabel after…” She broke off with a pained glance at the old man. “When I couldn’t.” Silence filled the space between them.

She focused her attention on the man before speaking again. “Florabel needs to grow out of it.” She walked to the foot of the bed to remove the man’s trousers. Undoing the first button, she raised an eyebrow. “He sure ain’t from nowhere around here. Look at this.” Jeb came close and watched as she worked the zipper up and down. “How handy is that?” She examined the fly with awe.

“Well, he just don’t make a lick of sense a’tall. It’s like he fell out’a nowhere. An’ what about all them planks and pieces of wood in the barn? Hope he wakes up, ‘cause I sure as shootin’ want to hear his story.” Jeb helped her tug off his pants.

Emma surveyed the situation. “All right, we’ll leave him as he is for now. Might be able to find him one of Red’s old nightshirts later for him to wear. Hand me that blanket and we’ll git him respectable.” Once covered to his waist, Emma sat on the side of the bed and peeled back the bandage with a hiss. “This is bad, Jeb.” She examined the weeping, deeply infected bullet hole. “It had to have been festerin’ for a while. But it seems like he was tryin’ to take care of it, somewhat.” She inspected the dirty bandage and set it aside. Checking his temperature with the back of her hand, she tsked in dismay. “He’s just ate up with fever.”

“What do you s’pose he done to git shot up?” Jeb fished the man’s billfold from his pants pocket. “Maybe he’s a bank robber. But he don’t got no money.” He fingered through its contents. “All he gots is these.” He removed a few small rectangular cards, exhibiting them. The old man squinted, holding the card at a comfortable distance and read. “Says ‘Dean Hetfield—OSHA Inspector’. Now what in hell’s blazes do you ‘spose that is? ‘OSHA’,” he repeated, bending the card and biting on it. He flipped it over, reading the back.

“Language, Jeb.” Emma arched an eyebrow at the old man.

“It’s got a photograph of the feller right on this gizmo! I ain’t never seen nothin’ like this in all my life. Look here.” Jeb pointed. “It says ‘Occupational Safety and Health Administration’. You ever hear of any such beast? You think he’s a G-man of some sort? And what is this card made of, anyhow?”

“You put those back, Jeb. Ain’t ours to pry at. Leastwise until he wakes and can speak for hisself. We know what his name is, now. That’s good enough for us, for the time being, anyhow.”

“You think he’s a spy?” Jeb asked, wide-eyed as he put the items back into the billfold.

“Cain’t imagine a spy breakin’ my barn and then just curlin’ up for a rest. Let’s see if’n we cain’t pull him back from death’s door and worry about the rest later.”

A tentative knock on the door interrupted them. “Mama, I knocked like you said. Can I come in?” Jeb moved to the door and opened it when Emma nodded her okay. “I brought the poultice. It’s good ‘n wet,” Florabel said. “Slaid brung the water, but I had him set it on the porch and tol’ him to go on back to the bunkhouse, thank you very much. We don’t need him for nothin’ else, Mama. You and me an’ Old Jeb, we can take care of him. I drug in the water all by myself and put it to boilin’. It’ll be ready soon.” She set the poultice down on the nightstand. Hands on her hips, Florabel made an authoritative sweep of the room, taking stock of what needed doing.

Emma drew her daughter to her and rubbed her back. “Good work, baby girl. Although, you need not be so rude to Slaid. I don’t know what gits into you sometimes.”

Florabel’s confidence shriveled away. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

Jeb came over and patted her head. “Slaid just don’t know our ways very well, is all. He come from a family who still keep to their strange, foreign ways. He don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Florabel gave a contrite nod, staring down as she toed the floorboards. “I don’t like strange ways from foreign parts.” She contorted her hands into maniacal ‘monster-claws’ and wiggled them. “Grar! Rawr!” She roared like a beast at the floor. Dropping her play, she turned to Jeb. “I don’t like foreign ways, Old Jeb.”

The old man grinned. “And if we was to go to foreign parts, I reckon they wouldn’t like our ways much neither,” he said without scolding. Florabel shrugged, idly pursing her lips and swaying as she studied the floor. Jeb chuckled and gave her braid a tug. “I’ll go watch and see the water don’t boil over and bring it in straight away so’s you can git this feller cleaned up and his wound tended.” He left the two women to their nursing duties.

Florabel leaned against the side of the bed and watched the sick stranger. “He sure does have a lot of scars, Mama. What happened there?” She pointed to a scar below his gunshot wound, a puckered burn mark that’d healed over.

“I’m not sure. Looks like he got near branded somehow,” Emma said. Florabel hooted with laughter.

“You don’t brand people, silly! Only cows!” She instructed her mother and then sobered, her face pinched with worry. “You think he’s gonna wake up soon, Mama?”

“I don’t know.” Emma cupped her daughter’s chin, forcing the child to face her. “But you listen to me, now. He’s hurt real bad, Florabel. He may just fade away, and we cain’t fuss if that happens, you hear me? We’ll do what’s right and Christian, but we cain’t latch onto what Jesus claims as his, so don’t you go gittin’ your hopes up, now. I know you kinda cottoned to him because you was the one who found him, but I don’t want you hollerin’ and a-carryin’ on if he goes to Jesus. We don’t even know him. We’ll be sorry and proper respectful if he passes, but that’s it.” Emma gave her daughter a tugging hug.

“I know, Mama. But I’m real good at doctorin’, so we’ll just make Jesus wait an extra few years for him.”

Emma smiled. “Come on, let’s git washed up and git ready. We gotta hang some wet sheets over the windows in here to keep the dust away from him and git to work. It’s gonna be a long day.”

* *

  _February 10, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma  
_

“Thanks for meeting us so late. We broke almost every speed limit gettin’ here as fast as we could. Our nephew means the world to us. We were worried sick. How is he?” Bobby put his arm around Ellen to complete their performance as worried relatives. The being relatives part may have been a sham, but the worry wasn’t.

Doc gave his stubble a tired once-over. “Well, he’s stable. He’s suffered a couple of broken ribs. Those’ll take some time to heal. And he took some lumps, but most of ‘em all superficial. On those two counts, he should be just fine.”

“There are other ‘counts’? What else is wrong with him?” Ellen asked.

The doctor bobbled and scratched his neck. “Medically speaking? Nothing else is wrong as far as we can see. But he ain’t entirely right. Truth is, you see, he’s been unconscious since he arrived. Still hasn’t cracked an eye. But there’s no concussion or head trauma of any kind. We ran tox screens to see if he had taken something, but everything came back negative.”

Bobby and Ellen looked questions at each other. After a pause, Bobby spoke. “And his partner, Dean? He hasn’t been in here asking after Sam?”

“Okay, well, Gerry said he talked with both boys yesterday at the construction site. But as far as I know that’s the last time anyone saw the other man.”

“Gerry?” Bobby asked.

“Gerry Burnett. He’s the foreman at the construction site up by the airport this boy was inspecting. Gerry said OSHA sent these boys over to see what all happened to Matt and a couple of the others—work accidents and such.”

“Work accidents? I know it’s late and all, but we’re coming into a story half told. Can y’start at page one for us?” Bobby adjusted his baseball cap peevishly.

The doctor took a breath and waited a couple of beats. “Yeah, okay. Um, more’n a month ago, when ground was first broke on the new mall, men began having some odd mishaps. Bret Hammond snapped a collarbone and three ribs. Jesse Coulter busted his kneecap and bruised a kidney. Matt Crawford was the last one, he fell more’n 12-15 foot from the top of some scaffolding. Busted his leg in three places. After he come to, he squawked to the Boise City News about what happened or what he thought happened. It was crazy nonsense if you ask me.” Ellen and Bobby made eye-contact and turned back to the doctor as he continued. “A couple days later, your nephew showed up with his partner from OSHA lookin’ into the accidents. Gerry says he had a chat with them yesterday. Then this morning a couple of workers found your nephew lyin’ senseless at the site. That’s about as close to page one as I can get you. You can ask Gerry what he knows tomorrow.”

“All right, so Sam hasn’t regained consciousness? You have no idea why?” Ellen asked.

“He’s still out like a light. Just like them other three were.”

Bobby shook his head. “Wait. What? You lost me again. Like the others?”

“Weeeeeell, see, all three of them other boys also came in here insensible. They were out for close to a day. When they came to, at first they were catatonic, eyes fixated far off and didn’t react to nothing. That lasted a day or so, and then when they finally started speakin’, they…” He waffled from foot to foot. “They didn’t have a memory in their heads.”

Bobby’s jaw dropped. “Amnesia?”

Doc glanced away. “Uh, yeah. Well, in a manner of speaking, yeah. Didn’t last too long, though. Well, leastwise it didn’t last too long for Matt or Jesse. Matt, see, he had family huddled around him that were able to talk him back to his senses. Jesse went home and the moment he saw his house and little girl, well, the lights flipped right back on for him. Bret didn’t remember for a few weeks. Both his parents are dead, y’see, and it took his sister a few weeks to be able to get here from out’a state. After a few days with her, he finally remembered who he was.” The doctor shuffled and adjusted his lab coat. “There was no medical basis for the amnesia. I don’t know what happened to those boys, whether it was some crazy PTSD or whatever, but there was no brain injury present in any of them. CT’s, MRI’s, X-rays came back clear. After the families gathered ‘round and started talking to these boys, they slowly came to. Took some time to jar their memories, sure, but they’re all fine now, broken bones notwithstanding.”

“And you’re saying Sam has the same issue?” Ellen asked.

“I’m not sayin’ anything. I’m only answering your questions,” Doc said. “All I know right now is that Sam remains unresponsive, with no conclusive diagnosis. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you right now. We’re gonna have to wait until he wakes up to see if he remembers anything.”

Bobby sighed. “Can we see him? We’d like to sit with him if you don’t mind.”

Doc nodded and moved toward the only nurse’s station in the small hospital. “Carrie, will you show these folks to Mr. Ulrich’s room?” The doctor regarded the couple. “I think Sam will be stable until the morning. You can sit with him as long as you like. I’m going over to the Doctor’s lounge. Carrie will call me if I’m needed.” He shook their hands and turned to leave.

“Wait.” Bobby stopped him. “You mentioned that Matt told the papers a strange account of how he got hurt. What did he say happened?”

Doc chuckled. “That goofy lunatic swore he was attacked by a ghost.” He laughed again. “When I said he eventually came back to his senses, I meant relatively speaking. But Matt always was an odd stick, so you have to keep that in mind. Carrie should have a copy of the article around here you can look at if you’ve a mind.” He gave a wave of his hand and left Bobby and Ellen staring at each other.

“Y’all don’t be so worried,” Carrie said. “All these boys have come around sooner or later. And now that he’s got family here, he’ll remember everything in no time. You’ll see.” She smiled and guided them into the Sam’s room.

Bobby and Ellen came up on either side of Sam’s bed and watched his young, slack face. Ellen ran her fingers through his hair. “Sam honey. It’s Ellen. Can you open your eyes for me?” She sighed at the lack of response.

“What’s all this?” Bobby asked, nodding toward the machinery surrounding Sam. “I thought the doctor said he was stable.”

“He is. The heart monitor is just a precaution because he’s unconscious. We’ve been monitoring him all day and his vitals are fine. Really.” She checked Sam’s blood pressure again and made some minor adjustment to his IV. “I’ll let you folks settle in.”

“Say, Carrie,” Bobby turned to the woman, trying to sound casual, “could you bring me the copy of that newspaper article? I could use a laugh right about now.”  

“Sure thing,” she said and shut the door behind her.

They were quiet for a moment while Ellen smoothed Sam’s hair back, and cupped his hand in hers. Her fingers traced the binding-link still healing on his arm, a discomfiting reminder of the demon that had stolen Sam’s body, tortured Jo, and shot Dean not much more than a week ago. “Now, Sam honey, you need to open your eyes, y’hear me? It’s Ellen. Bobby ‘n me are here and you’re safe.”

“Sam? That you?” Bobby lifted a flask from his shirt pocket and splashed it on the unconscious man. He shrugged at Ellen as she gaped at him. “What? Just checkin’. We gotta be sure, Ellen.” Satisfied Sam wasn’t possessed, he relaxed and bent down toward the boy’s ear. “Hey Sam, it’s Bobby. Open your damn-fool eyes.”

“Smooth, Singer.” Ellen’s voice crackled and popped with fatigue and humor. “You want him to wake up or not? Boy’s more’n likely to stay put just to spite your grumpy ass.” She sat down and sighed. “Well, shit. It’s gonna be a long night.”

* *

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

“Ow, Mama, it’s a good thing he ain’t awake. He’d be a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’ right about now!” Florabel’s blue eyes widened as her mother fished out another steaming hot towel from the pot of water with a stick. “Ouchie!” She gasped as Emma draped it over the bullet hole. The man’s breathing remained steady and he didn’t so much as flinch against the scalding water. The steaming fluid combined with the pus and dried blood. It ran down his chest in a rivulet, leaving a milky-pink trail behind that Florabel swabbed with a towel.

“Catch that water, Florabel. Don’t let it hit the bed. We’ll let this set for a spell while it loosens the infection.” She bent over the nightstand and lit the kerosene lamp. It wasn’t noon yet, but between the blowing dust outside and Jeb blocking the window with wet sheets, the room was shaded and dim. Shadows bobbed and flickered on the walls while Emma situated the lamp as close as possible to their work area.

“This should keep out the worst of it, Em.” Jeb anchored the wet sheet to the wall and stepped away. “Last thing we need is for this boy to come up with Dust Pneumonia on top of everything else.”  

“That’s real good, Jeb.” Emma discarded the rag and replaced it with a steaming, fresh one. Florabel scurried to dam the new spring that trickled down his chest.

“If you don’t need me for anything else, I reckon I’ll go check the jackrabbit traps. Varmits is like a dadgum plague. I ain’t never seen so many. Dust killed everything that kills them, I reckon. Folks in town is talkin’ about organizin’ big ol’ jackrabbit drives this spring and trappin’ ‘em by the truckloads and do away with ‘em that a-way. Might be a fun way to spend some Sunday.”

“Can I come, Old Jeb?” Florabel bounced her bottom on the bed in excitement. Emma put out a hand to stop her.

“If’n your mama say’s it’s okay, we’ll go sometime this spring,” Jeb said. “Anyway, I best git to gittin’. I need to milk Penny, too. She ain’t been touched yet today. I reckon the eggs still need fetchin’, seeing as Florabel was tendin’ our guest in the barn. After that I’ll come and heat up some cornbread and beans for us, since we missed breakfast.”

“Oh Jeb, I’m sorry.” Emma cast a fretful eye at the man.

“Ain’t no trouble, Em. You got your hands full and then some. I’ll see to it and let you know when it’s ready. Florabel you gittin’ hungry, doll?”

“I been hungry since last night! My tummy’s growlin’ like a monster!”

“All right, then,” Jeb said. “Gotta keep your strength up, little nurse, or you won’t have nothin’ left to give your patient.”

“I ain’t a nurse, Old Jeb! I’m a doctor!” Florabel straightened her posture and wiped the blood and pus from the sick man’s chest with professional, polished strokes.

“A girl doctor? Why, I never did hear of such nonsense.” Jeb winked at her. “But I’ll fix y’up some lunch just the same.”

“Why cain’t girls be doctors, Mama?” Florabel asked after Jeb left.

“Hush, now. Don’t be askin’ so many questions.” Emma scooted to the other side of the bed and dipped another cloth in cold water this time. “C’mere Florabel, let Mama show you. We need to keep his shoulder warm, but we have to cool the rest of him down to help his fever. So while I clean his shoulder I want you to take this cloth and keep wiping his face, arms and chest. He could wake up and be no more’n an idiot for the rest of his life because his fever got too high. You never want a fever to go on too long or too hot. So we gotta keep him wiped down.”

“Okay, Mama.” Florabel set to work while her mother irrigated the wound, squeezing out the infection and saturating it first with whiskey and then with iodine. Florabel remained quiet for some time, wiping the man down until she ventured, “I ain’t never seen a man with such fine muscles before. Have you noticed ‘em, Mama?”

Emma stifled a choke of surprise and flushed. Despite herself and her Christian intentions, she had most definitely noticed. She bit her lip to kill the girlish smile that threatened to overtake her face. “Don’t matter how big a man’s muscles is, just how hard and how honest he works with ‘em.” She poured some more iodine into the bullet hole and pressed a cloth against it.

“Well, I s’pose, but I like his muscles, Mama. I betcha a nickel he could pick up Penny and toss her over his shoulder, if he’d a mind to.”

“You think so?” Emma chuckled.

“Uh huh.” Florabel watched her mother with keen interest. Emma took some small scraps of fabric she’d boiled and packed the bullet hole with them, pouring more iodine over the wound and placing the bread and milk poultice on top. She overlaid one more hot cloth on top of everything and let it sit there.

“That was a mighty well put together poultice, Florabel.” Emma complimented her daughter. “Now we’ll leave this here and replace the cloth as often as we can to keep this nice and warm so the poultice works faster. We’ll keep the rest of him cool and then with time, prayer and patience he might just pull through.”

“He’ll pull through, Mama. You’ll see.”

* *

  _February 11, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Bobby yawned and put down the newspaper, Cimarron County’s finest, and only, periodical. It was past 2:00am and Sam hadn’t stirred or made a sound. Ellen sat half asleep, holding the boy’s hand. “Well, sounds like those boys came lookin’ for a vengeful spirit.” Bobby rubbed his sleepy eyes.

Ellen jolted awake and repositioned herself. “You ever see a vengeful spirit wipe folks’ memories?”

“No. But this Matt fellow wasn’t just talkin’ about a flickering spirit. He said he saw a ghostly image of someone, but it was a spinning black cloud that attacked and knocked him off the scaffold.”

“So we’re talkin’, what, some kind of elemental, maybe? Elementals can have a crazy, unpredictable effect on people if they get too close.”

“Could be,” Bobby said. “But where Dean got to in all this is beyond me. Something big happened. He’d ‘a called or gotten to Sam if he could. No way he’d let Sam go to the hospital without him. So he’s gotta be in the same state as Sam, I’m bettin’, but why they ain’t found him I’ll never know.” He stood and put on his jacket. “I’m gonna go take a look at the site and see if I can’t spot Dean and get his senseless ass in here. You stay with Sam in case he wakes up. If this is the same thing as the others, I dunno if we’ll be enough to get him to remember who the hell he is. From what Doc said it sounds like you need prodding from folks who are especially close.”

“Bobby Singer, you be careful, now. Don’t go in there half-cocked. These boys are good hunters and see what happened to them. I ain’t got time to be rompin’ down memory lane with your sorry ass, trying to get you to remember all the stupid shit you’n me have done over the years. So stay safe.” She patted Sam’s hand. “I swear, I dunno how these boys get into such messes all the time.”

“They’re just experiencin’ some of that famous ‘Winchester Luck’…”

They both nodded. “Shitty,” they said at the same time.

* *

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The wind shore through Slaid’s greasy locks, tossing his hair about in mad, angry waves—a heartless imitation of the graceful, wind-blown wheat fields that had once blanketed the land. He stared into the mid-day sun. Strong, high winds had sucked the dust into the atmosphere where it acted as a gritty filter between the sun and the plains, causing the light to shine pale and vague despite the cloudless sky.

Slaid leaned against the broken barn door, cleaning dirt from under his fingernails. A trace of a wry, self-satisfied smile skimmed his face as he looked back at the farmhouse. Jeb had already come and gone after milking the cow. No one else would bother him today, he was certain of that. He pushed himself away from the barn door. Penny lowed mournfully when she saw him, twitching her ears and shifting her heavy hooves. She cast her soft, liquid eyes to the ground in search of hay.

Standing inside the shattered entryway, he examined the damage and ran his fingers over the cracked support beams and collapsed walls. He ambled over to the back of the barn where the stranger had appeared and swished his foot around, moving hay and the strange pieces of wood away, revealing the trapdoor. Scurrying down the ladder, he lit the small kerosene lamp he’d left there the night before.

The room had been a root cellar until dust, wind and drought stripped the fertility from the land, leaving the Livingstons with nothing left to store. Sawdust coated the earthen floor. Slaid walked past a few empty crates and barrels, stopping at the grizzly, makeshift altar where offerings of herbs and grain alcohol lay in bowls. These, along with decomposed animal parts and candles, sat amidst unintelligible symbols painted in chicken blood. A dead chicken hung from a metal hook over the offerings, entrails dangling like a macabre festoon. The blood, long drained, lay in a crusting puddle on the altar below. The pungent smell of the decaying corpse lingered in the small, enclosed space. Slaid breathed deep and smiled.

All in all he was quite pleased with himself. “Hala!” he said. “Power.” He raised his arms and flexed his thin, stringy muscles. “It worked. You came. Soon I learn to control.” He waggled a bony finger as he tutted. “You will work for Slaid, ya? Make lady and little one mine? Make them love Slaid and obey?” 

He rubbed his greedy hands together. The wind demon would soon bless him ten-fold. Everything had worked as promised. The only unexpected and inexplicable complication had been the man showing up when Slaid performed the summoning ritual, manifested by the wind-demon itself, no doubt. He hadn’t prepared for that, but he wouldn’t worry about him. If the fever didn’t take him, he’d find something that would.


	3. One Day Old

__

_February 11, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Sheets of rain pattered against the tarp dangling in front of the gaping hole at the back of the building. Bobby juggled both the flashlight and his sawed-off, checking to make sure there were two salt-rounds in the chamber ready to go. Snapping the gun shut, he lifted the tarp and slipped inside the dark, unstable structure. The hunter pointed the flashlight toward the splintered rafters and swept the beam down, revealing the chaotic damage. Picking and choosing his way with care, he crossed the split joists and broken beams littering the floor at odd angles. The force responsible for the damage had to have been unpredictable and erratic at best, since there was no organization to the jumbled debris.  
  
Unsettled by the silence broken only by the gusting taps of rain on tarp, Bobby cleared his throat and called Dean’s name, but he no longer expected an answer. He’d been searching the construction site from end to end for over an hour now, and he’d heard and seen nothing—living or dead. Casting the beam of light to the floor, he followed the wall-frame, illuminating each and every corner with disappointing results.  
  
“Where the hell’d you get to, kid?”  
  
He set the flashlight down so the shaft of light pointed toward the ceiling, creating some soft, diffused light to work by. Bobby fished out his cell phone and hit the redial button. He stiffened as the call switched to voice mail. The hunter wasn’t sure he’d heard right or not. Again, he dialed. This time there was no mistake. _Smoke on the Water_ was playing somewhere nearby.  
  
Bobby picked up the flashlight, following the tinny music. He kicked away a large tarp and rifled through the debris on the floor, dialing the number again as soon as it went to voicemail. Homing in on a particular area, he swept the light over a debris pile. He was close. After another redial, he heaved pieces of wood out of the way, revealing the telltale glow of a closed cell phone. Bobby picked it up and flashed his light around, hoping to find Dean. He didn’t. After searching several fruitless moments, he stilled the flashlight and gave the phone a defeated, pensive tap before pocketing it.  
  
“Aw, hell boy.”  
  
A glint caught his eye and he moved some more scraps of wood around, retrieving Dean’s Colt 1911 from the rubble. No way would the young hunter have left his gun behind by choice.  
  
“Dammit, Dean.”  
  
He checked the clip and stuck the gun in his waistband with a despondent sigh. The exhalation smoked out an unnatural icy-white. It had been cold. But it hadn’t been _that_ cold.  
  
Bobby spun around to find himself nose to nose with the stuttering image of a pale, grinning specter. When the hunter aimed his shotgun, the entity raised its hand, releasing a burst of energy. Bobby’s hand jolted with a static charge, and the gun flew from his fingers and into the air behind him. Without missing a beat or even bothering to look where the gun clattered on the floorboards, the seasoned hunter drew Dean’s Colt and fired.  
  
“Iron bullets, asshole,” he said as the last vestige of the surprised spirit disintegrated into spiraling mist.  
  
Retrieving his shotgun from the corner, he hustled to get out of the building. The ghostly form reappeared, flickering in front of him, releasing another blast that tossed him on his ass a few feet away. The spirit grinned and began chanting in a foreign language. A strong wind blew through the room, kicking up debris, the chilling susurrus of the incantation a part of the swirling air itself. Bobby loosed a salt-round, causing the spirit to dissipate, but it had no effect on the black, rotating vortex it had summoned. The droning murmur built until its vibrations rolled through the hunter’s body, and spiny fingers of electricity pulsed through the metal framework of the building. Bobby crawled toward the flapping tarp that covered the most obvious exit, watching the dark, rotating mass take on more solid shape as it advanced. Sibilant imprecations echoed around the room, growing louder along with the sudden clatter of boards and other construction materials kicked up by the malicious winds. Small jabs of electricity jolted outward from the black mass, stretching white-blue fingers toward Bobby as the vortex moved toward him.  
  
“Oh hell, no you don’t!”  
  
Bobby scrambled away. Right as he reached the tarp, the leering ghost reappeared, its image stuttering and fluctuating from location to location around the room. It seemed to overlap itself, manifesting in two areas at the same time. The dual images bounced and flickered as the savage wind continued its approach. Both Bobby and the tarp broke free of the building, sprawling onto the prairie floor below. Bolting up with the agility of someone half his age, he sprinted away, wood rending and splintering behind him. As he ran, the chilling incantation swirled around him. Bobby memorized as much of it as he could while hauling ass away from the building.

* *

 _February 11, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
It was just after dawn when her mama’s comforting hand stroked her face, her low, soft voice calling her from sleep.  
  
“Florabel, git on up. Mornin’ won’t wait.”  
  
Florabel had drifted off the night before at the foot of the bed, cool cloth still wrapped in her small, capable fingers. Stirring now, Florabel noticed a snug blanket had been wrapped around her, and truth to tell she was in no hurry to leave its warmth. She breathed in the crisp air around her and coughed up a mouthful of gritty sputum. Her lungs always hated mornings.  
  
“Come on, Florabel, I ain’t tellin’ you agin.”  
  
“S’cold.” Florabel rubbed a sticky eye with the back of a clumsy hand.  
  
Emma patted the groggy girl and sat her up. “Well now, the faster you move, the warmer you’ll git.”  
  
Florabel yawned and blinked stupidly at her mother who, by looks of it, hadn’t slept at all. Careless tendrils fell from an untended hair knot, and even though her eyes hadn’t smiled in months, they looked even more tired and sad this morning. With a pang, Florabel remembered their patient and feared the worst. Her eyes darted to Mr. Hetfield.  
  
“Is he…?” Her lip quivered.  
  
“He’s the same, Florabel. Now, I need you to go take care of the chickens and make sure the house is swept of dust. Once you done that, you can come an’ help me tend him and keep him cool. His fever is still mighty high.”  
  
Florabel yawned again and scratched. “Okay, Mama. Will you call me if’n he wakes up? I don’t want him to be afraid ‘cause he’s in a strange house.” The young child scooted off the bed, hopping on her tiptoes toward the door. She needed the outhouse.  
  
“Florabel, wait. Come here. We need to take care of that cough a’yours.” Emma pointed to the greasy box and bottles lining the nightstand. The girl blanched, knowing what was coming.  
  
“Mama, no! Please.” Florabel grimaced, backing away and shaking her head. Her elusive maneuvers forced Emma to grab her by the wrist and drag her toward the chair, bodily lifting the child sideways when she dug her heels into the floor. Her little chest heaved with each panicked breath. “No! No, Mama, I hate it! Argh!”  
  
“Florabel Mae Livingston, you stop that right this very instant!” Her mama’s tired eyes flared, and the girl stilled, suffering her mother’s anger, leaning into her with a defeated whimper. Florabel swiped at the fat tears pooling in her lashes.  
  
“Mama…”  
  
“Stay still, Florabel.” There was no more anger in her voice, but Florabel dare not disobey. Watching her mother spoon up the sugar, Florabel’s calm evaporated and she wept again.  
  
“My cough ain’t so bad, Mama,” she said between sobs.  
  
“Shame, Florabel.” Emma added a couple of drops of turpentine to the sugar and fed it to her snuffling daughter. The girl swallowed the revolting concoction, coughing and gagging as she fought to keep it down. “After Henry?” Emma dipped her fingers into a jar of skunk fat; its fetid odor had both their eyes watering. She added several drops of turpentine to the oily sludge and worked the two into a pasty mash. Florabel’s broken squeals filled the dusty room. “And your papa?” Emma continued to scold, rubbing the remedy on Florabel’s neck. She slid her hand under her daughter’s shirt and overalls and smeared the foul mixture on her chest. “I won’t have it, Florabel.” She wiped her hands on a towel.  
  
It was over. Florabel’s body jerked a few times with hiccoughing sobs. She didn’t mean to shame her mama, but she really, really hated the taste of turpentine and the smell of skunk oil.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said with all the stoicism she could muster.  
  
Her mama dabbed at Florabel’s tears, hugging her close. “I know you are, baby girl. But I cain’t have you come up with Dust Pneumonia. I cain’t have it. So you must be brave even when it’s real hard, right?” Florabel nodded and snuffled, finding solace as she snuggled against her mother’s soft neck. “Now you be quick about your work, like a jackrabbit, and then you and we can tend Mr. Hetfield. We’ll change his dressing together. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”  
  
“Yes, Mama. I’ll be quick, quick, quick!”  
  
She ran first to the outhouse to take care of business then grabbed the pail and broom from the mudroom on her way back. Fiercely on-task, she swept as much dust as she could, scooping and tossing it out the backdoor. It felt like she swept up more and more dust every day. And while she had never known anything else but dust, she knew it was getting worse. She couldn’t remember the last day the wild wind hadn’t blown dust through every crack in the house. Peering out the windows, she noticed some of the glue-stripping had buckled and come loose. She and her mama would have to fix that soon. The _Blow Season_ was upon them, and if a black blizzard came up, they’d be no safer inside than out without proper weatherproofing.  
  
With the dust under control, at least for another day, she hunted centipedes that plagued the house, pulling up a few choice floorboards that always housed hundreds of the pests. Placing an old schoolbook over the pail to prevent the insects from crawling out, she corralled and grabbed as many as her small hands could manage.  
  
When she had a sufficient meal for the chickens, Florabel dusted off her hands, grabbed the pail and loped down the path to the chicken coop. With the wind particularly strong this morning, she kept her eyes closed as much as she could to protect them from the billowing dust. Gritty wave after gritty wave assaulted her from behind, forcing her to readjust for balance and find a better bid on the ground, her slight build no match for the harsh, unrelenting gusts. Once she reached the chicken coop, the barn protected her somewhat, the structure groaning and creaking as it took each blast.  
  
Sheltered from the wind, Florabel relaxed and spotted her favorite chicken. “Mornin’ Molly!” She hopped in a circle, whooping. “Lordy above, Molly, I been so busy, you just cain’t imagine! You’ll never guess what happened! A man got hurt in our barn. I found him and I’m doctorin’ him!” She tossed some centipedes to the chickens and watched their feeding frenzy as they clucked and gossiped to each other.  
  
“Devil Fighter made it through the night, ya?” Slaid’s voice sent a shiver down Florabel’s spine and she folded in on herself. Coming up behind her, he leaned on the fence, poking his fingers through the chicken-coop wire and smiling a wolfish, yellow-toothed smile.  
  
“He’s still sleepin’, and I gotta git back to him. I just come to feed Molly and the others.” She dumped the rest of the centipedes in one go, her visit with Molly over in an instant.  
  
“Ah, ya?” Slaid nodded toward chickens with languid disinterest. “Which one is Molly?”  
  
Florabel inched away from him and timorously pointed to her favorite chicken. “That one right there.”  
  
“Ah, pretty red one. She make good pie some day?” Slaid rubbed his stomach and belched. He laughed at the girl’s disgust.  
  
“You ain’t a-eatin’ Molly! Mama promised she’ll keep her as a layer until she goes to Jesus on her own.” Florabel’s chin trembled with anger. “And then we’s givin’ her a proper Christian send off. She ain’t gonna be pie.”  
  
“Maybe, maybe. Maybe some chickens die for no reason, though. It can happen, ya? Jesus might just swoop down and…” He pantomimed wringing the chicken’s neck and biting a chicken leg. Slaid laughed again. He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers as though he was merely stating facts. “Or maybe big bad wolf comes and eats her.” He growled, gnashing his teeth.  
  
Florabel stood defiant. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to the chickens. Old Jeb keeps their yard as tight as a drum, thank you very much. Ain’t no coyotes or varmits gittin’ in.” Florabel held her empty pail in front of her. She took a few tentative steps backwards. “I gotta scoot. Mama tol’ me to be quick about it. We gotta change the man’s dressings. You go on back to the bunkhouse. We don’t need you today.”  
  
“Be careful of the Devil Fighter, now, little one. Maybe he’ll break the house like he did the barn. Slaid will protect you and your mama if you let him. Like you were my own.” He patted his heart.  
  
“He ain’t no devil fighter. Mama says his name is Mr. Hetfield. His arm is hurt is all. And he’s gonna be my pal when he gits to feelin’ fit agin.”  
  
“Better pals than you ‘n me?” he tsked, feigning disappointment and jealousy. “Maybe I’ll just have to make friends with Molly, then, ya?” He smiled and winked at the bird, bending down and clucking to it. Molly bobbed out of the man’s reach.  
  
Florabel wavered, not knowing what to say. She didn’t want to get in trouble for giving him sass, but she wanted to tell him they weren’t ever going to be ‘pals’ and she didn’t need his protection. Molly was her bird and Florabel and her mama were fine on their own.  
  
She put a finger in her mouth and cast her eye toward the farmhouse. “I gotta git. Mr. Hetfield needs coolin’ off.” She edged back a few more steps, spun around and ran toward the house, toiling against the wind as she retreated. She passed Jeb on his way to milk Penny.  
  
“You’s full of pep this morning, Miss Flibbertigibbet!” Jeb laughed as the child raced past him.  
  
“I cain’t dawdle, Old Jeb. I gotta git to doctorin’!” She waved and ran on.  
  
“Didja remember to collect the eggs this morning?”  
  
The child stopped dead and raised her empty pail. “Ugh! I forgot.” She waffled, her eyes fluttering toward Slaid who still stood by the coop.  
  
“Well, give Old Jeb the pail, Miss Doctor, an’ I’ll see they git collected. C’mon now.” Jeb held out a coaxing hand as she stood deliberating. Looking from Jeb to Slaid and back, she ran to the old man, handing him the pail.  
  
“Thanks Old Jeb. I’m obliged.” She grinned and ran toward the house.  
  
“Lord ‘a mercy, child, I can smell that skunk oil from here.” The old man hooted at her as she raced up the dusty path.  
  
Florabel winced as the door shut with a bang. “Sorry Mama!” she said and coughed up some wet dust.  
  
“Florabel…” She heard her mother’s stern, weary voice. Running through the mudroom, she found her mother in the kitchen boiling water.  
  
“Sorry,” Florabel said again. “I’m all done, Mama.”  
  
Emma handed a stack of bandages and linens to her. “You take these on in and run a cold cloth over Mr. Hetfield, and I’ll be in once this has boiled.”  
  
“Yes, Mama.” Florabel’s back arched under the weight of the sheets and linens as she made her way to the bedroom. Fighting to see over her burden, she dumped the items in a chair. “Whew!” She grunted in relief, turning to her next task and stopping short. Her eyes went wide, and a smile leapt up her dusty cheeks. “Well, howdy there, pally!”  
  
Mr. Hetfield’s eyes were open.

* *

 _February 11, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“It’s something all right.” Bobby scribbled notes on the back of a hospital pamphlet. “I need to get to a computer and see if I can’t suss out what it means. I can’t even tell what language it is, yet. But it was definitely a spirit, and it’s controlling an elemental of some sort. A nasty one, too.”  
  
“And Dean?” Ellen sat, thumbing the soft pad of Sam’s palm.  
  
“Found his cell phone.” Bobby handed it to her. “But he’s not there, Ellen. It’s like he just disappeared off the face of the earth. Something ain’t right about this. That thing created a lot of energy, and the spirit started to shimmer and show up in two different places at the same time.”  
  
“Bilocation? That takes a real powerful spirit, Bobby. I don’t think this is just ‘Uncle Joe’ with a chip on his shoulder we’re dealing with.”  
  
“I know it, Ellen. And we can’t just salt-and-burn the thing even if we knew who he was and where he was buried, because we have to banish the elemental, and we can’t do _that_ until we find out what happened to Dean.”  
  
The door opened and a young nurse with a round, Shirley Temple-esque face, complete with dimples and flawless complexion, entered. “Mornin’ y’all. I’m Abby. I’m here to get some vitals, if y’all don’t mind.”  
  
“Certainly.” Ellen rose and stood with Bobby. He handed her the written incantation to see if she recognized it. She read it and gave him a negative shake of her head.  
  
“Hey there, Sweetheart. You with us, now?” Abby said.  
  
Bobby and Ellen glanced over and noticed Sam’s eyes were open. Moving to the other side of the bed, the hunters watched as the nurse tried to rouse him.  
  
“C’mon darlin’, want to look at me?”  
  
The nurse lifted his half-closed eyes, assessing their response. They never moved or changed focus, remaining fixed on a non-existent target about three feet away.  
  
Bobby snapped his fingers in front of the boy’s face. “Sam, c’mon boy. Up and at ‘em.”  
  
“I’m gonna go get Doc,” Abby said. “Try not to worry. I’ll be right back.”  
  
Ellen scrubbed her face with her palm. She bent forward, moving into Sam’s field of vision. “Sam, honey. Can you look at me?” She patted his cheek, but the boy never stirred.  
  
“Boy’s plumb catatonic.” Bobby shook his head. “It’s like the others. If he don’t have his memories when he snaps out of it, I hope to high-hell we’ll be enough tinder and flint to get the fires goin’ again.”  
  
“This isn’t good, Bobby. We need him to remember so we can find out what happened to Dean. But I’m afraid we’ll need Dean to get Sam’s memories back. It’s a Catch-22 shit-storm if ever there was one.”  
  
Doc Haffner rounded the doorway. “So our boy’s awake?”  
  
“If you can call this ‘awake’,” Bobby said. “He ain’t twitched a muscle or said word one, yet.”  
  
Doc came near and examined the patient. He checked his pupils and studied his heart-monitor.  
  
“Ain’t no response from the monitor,” Abby said, lowering her voice. “It’s like he’s still out, but he ain’t. Machinery says he’s sleepin’ but his eyes say otherwise, just like the others.” Her last words had been meant for the doctor’s ears only, but Bobby and Ellen caught them and held an unspoken conversation of their own as the doctor and nurse resettled their patient.  
  
“Well now, it looks as though this boy is gonna be a clean slate,” Doc said. “He’ll come around, though. You’ll just have to keep at him until he’s been jarred loose again. I expect it won’t take but a day or two with you good folks around to help.” Doc scratched his chin. “Well, I’ll be by later. Don’t think there will be much doin’ today. If he’s like the others, he’ll just lay quiet until tomorrow. You folks best get settled and get some sleep while you can. Boy’s gonna need you both in the next couple of days.”  
  
Bobby looked at Ellen a long, hard moment after the doctor left them alone. He nodded toward Sam whose blank stare focused on nothing.  
  
“Well, to quote Dean Winchester himself… _Sonofabitch_!”

* *

 _February 11, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“Cain’t y’talk, there, Mr. Hetfield?” Florabel crawled onto the bed. “Aw, c’mon, pal, I know you must be real scared, but me and Mama and Old Jeb, we ain’t a-gonna hurtcha none.” She patted him to show she meant no harm and then enthusiastically pried his eyelid open as wide as it would go and brought her own eye within inches of his. “You in there, Mister? Hello!” She let his eyelid drop to its relaxed, half-open position. Florabel deflated with a sigh. “I guess you’s an idiot now,” she said. “Fever got too high, I reckon.” The diagnosis crushed her. She snuffled back her grief and guilt. “I tried real hard to keep the fever down, y’gotta believe me. I tried. But they’s only so much I could do.”  
  
“Florabel, what are you goin’ on about?” Emma asked as she carried the steaming pot of water into the room. She noticed the man’s open eyes and put the pot down, sloshing water onto the floor in her haste. “Florabel, why didn’t you call me, child?” She put her hand to the man’s forehead. “Can you hear me, Mr. Hetfield?” He made no response. “He say anything?”  
  
“No Mama. I think he’s an idiot now.” Her voice was wet with tears. “He won’t say nothin’ or even take a gander around the room. He just lays there a-starin’, but I dunno what he’s a-lookin’ at.”  
  
“Now, you be calm, Florabel. Mind what I said. We ain’t gonna mourn for someone we don’t know. Don’t hover and let me take a look.” Emma sat on the bed and bent close, waving her hand in front of his eyes and patting his face.  
  
“I done that, Mama. I opened his eyes good and big but they ain’t seein’ me. I don’t want him to be an idiot, Mama. He was gonna be my good pal.”  
  
“We don’t know he’s an idiot, yet. He’s fevered and wrung, and I bet he’s sore and tired to boot. Let’s give him some time to come awake fully. Fever can make folks mighty confused and dreamy.” She put a cool hand to his cheek and frowned. “This is a stubborn fever. I hope that poultice starts a-workin’ soon.” She rubbed a hand over her exhausted face and massaged the back of her neck.  
  
“You look tired, Mama. Ain’t you slept?”  
  
“I’ll sleep later. C’mon now, let’s see if we cain’t git him to drink a few sips. He needs to drink today no matter what. It’ll help to cool him from the inside.” She poured a small glass of water and waited a moment for the muddy sediment to sink to the bottom. She adjusted the pillows, leaning him against them and tilting his head.  
  
“Florabel, you help me hold his head like so while I git the water in him.” Her daughter did as asked, her face a study in deep concentration and attention. Emma tipped the glass to his lips. The first attempt had the water leaking right back out and down his chin. She angled his head farther back and tried again. This time the water hit the back of his throat and he swallowed reflexively.  
  
“Look at that. Good work, Florabel.” Emma beamed at her daughter. They repeated the task four more times and then settled him. “We’ll keep doin’ that every hour or so. It’ll help his fever and keep his thirst down. You start coolin’ him off with the cloth while I change the dressing. Then, we can rest a spell.”  
  
Florabel hummed as she resumed her ministrations. Following his fixed, glassy stare, she glanced behind her, expecting to see something, but it was the same room as always.  
  
“He’s awfully interested in a whole lot of nuttin’. I sure hope he ain’t an idiot, Mama.”  
  
“Me too, baby girl.” Emma reached for the whiskey bottle. “You stand back, now, Florabel. If he’s even half-awake he’s likely to thrash about when I pour this. And even if he don’t mean nothin’ by it, you could git hurt.” Florabel slipped off the bed and stood a good distance away. Bracing herself, she put a sturdy hand on the man’s shoulder and poured. The sick man remained lax and inert and his eyes never so much as quivered or changed position.  
  
“Well that just beats all,” Emma said, bewildered. “I’m glad he ain’t feelin’ pain, but it don’t make much sense, neither. I never did see a fever take on so.”  
  
Both girls jumped when Jeb knocked on the doorframe. “How’s the patient?”  
  
“Land, Jeb, you startled me.” Emma said, toweling up the excess whiskey. “His eyes is open, but he ain’t a whit heedful yet. I don’t know if’n this is the fever or if’n this is somethin’ we cain’t fix.” She nodded toward Florabel. “But we cain’t git upset if he decides he wants to go through them Pearly Gates, ain’t that right, Jeb?”  
  
“That’s right, Em.” His eyes met Emma’s. “Why, sometimes folks catch a glimpse of Heaven, an’ they ain’t no ‘suadin’ them to come on back, ‘cause it’s so restful and nice there. They’s diamonds and gold on the front gate alone. And angels are a-sittin’ there strummin’ their harps purty as you please when you walk in,” he said while Florabel listened, transfixed. “So if’n this poor boy wants to go on and be with Jesus and Moses, why, we won’t fuss about it.”  
  
“See, Florabel? We’ll do our part, but sometimes Heaven is too good to pass up. Ain’t no faultin’ anyone for wantin’ to stay there,” Emma said. She examined the poultice, making sure it was still moist. “This should start workin’ best in a day or two.” She set it on the wound and covered it with a steaming cloth.  
  
Florabel shrugged. “I reckon so, Mama. But it ain’t right for God to put us down here just so’s we can go runnin’ off to Heaven first chance we git.” She dipped the cloth in cold water and continued her task. “But Heaven sure does sound purty, that’s for sure.”  
  
“It sure does,” Emma said as she pulled on the nape of her tired neck.  
  
Jeb turned his attention to the young woman. “I brought some jackrabbits, Em. Florabel is fixin’ to disappear if’n she don’t git something to stick to her bones better ‘n what little cornbread we got. Thought I’d clean ‘em good and make some stew for us and some broth for the patient if’n he can swaller it,” he said. “Slaid went off to town to play cards, but I expect he’ll be back before supper tonight.”  
  
“Thank you, Jeb. I’ll be out in just a moment to help.”  
  
“No you won’t. You need a good, long rest. Me and Florabel can hold the fort and keep this feller cooled off for a few hours. By the time you wake up we’ll have a good supper ready.”  
  
Emma smiled and yawned. “All right, Jeb. Wake me if anything changes.” She left the old man and Florabel together.  
  
Florabel watched close to see if the man’s eyes moved or showed a spark of thought. Discouraged, she set the cloth aside, put her chin in her hands with a sigh.  
  
Jeb gave her a fond smile. “Cheer up, Florabel. This boy is gonna be all right one way or t’other. He’ll either be with God and Jesus or he’ll be with us. I count him a lucky feller either way.” Florabel nodded but didn’t appear convinced. “He’ll be all right,” Jeb said again. “Don’t you worry. No need to be walkin’ around as though you got a dark, black cloud hangin’ over your head.”

* *

 _February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
His first thought was that something was different. He couldn’t define the difference or compare it to anything else, because the black, gyrating mass with its monotonous, purling whispers and incessant discharge of energy whiffling through him was all he’d ever known. How long that had been didn’t matter, because he had no sense of time or space. There was no way to define it or quantify it, because he could neither define nor quantify himself. Not yet.  
  
There came a point, however, when he began to measure things. A gust of wind switched directions and beat on him from another angle. The murmurs incanted in a different pitch and then lapsed back to their original tenor. The pulse of blue-white electricity that ran up and down his body or _mass_ fluctuated and moved from top to bottom instead of bottom to top. And for a long while _that_ was all he knew, and it was the only difference he could perceive. But this _something_ —this was definitely not a mere variation. This was new data, raw and harsh, and he didn’t know what to make of it. The black vortex that’d been his sole base of experience gave way and another aspect of existence assaulted him.  
  
Light.  
  
He shrunk away from it, because it was unknown. It frightened him, but it was unavoidable. As he experienced this new information he began to discern one shape from another, and slowly, ever so slowly, he made some lost connections. _That’s a ceiling. A window. A person._ Synapses fired and he was able to discern even more information. _That’s a woman. That’s a man. He has a beard. I’m a man. The woman is caressing me—comforting me. The man is speaking, but I can’t understand a word. Words. Words are used to communicate. Nouns, verbs, prepositions are meaningful._ More networks fired, and he was able to listen to the words and translate them into meaningful thought.  
  
“That’s it, Sam. Keep looking at me. Can you hear me, kid?”  
  
 _That’s a question. I can hear, but I don’t know how to speak._ His jaw moved and even more connections stirred, and he knew he’d once done this often and without much effort. He took a breath and forced air through his voice box. The result was a strange, guttural surge. _You just moaned. Moaning does not equal speaking, geek boy. Who is it that always calls me that? Move your mouth and force a thought out along with the air._ He tried again.  
  
“Guhh,” he said. “Gggeek boy.” The man and woman simultaneously raised a thing… _an eyebrow_ …and looked at each other.  
  
“You callin’ me or yourself that?” the man asked, his mouth crinkling into a…thing... _a smile_. “Do you remember your name, son? Can you tell us?”  
  
He waited for more connections so that he could deliver what was asked of him. At first he didn’t know what a name was, but after a few internal adjustments he recalled that people had names. He looked from the man to the woman and back, blowing more air through his voice box in anticipation of an answer firing in his head.  
  
“I am…” he said.  
  
“Nothing.”


	4. This Morning I Am Born Again

__

_February 12, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
After more than two days of inertia, a change came, and it began with a slight, undulant tremor. It was close to noon and Florabel sat, busily trying to tame Mr. Hetfield’s fever. As she ran her cool cloth over his stomach, a quiver ran through him, significant enough that she felt the vibration through the wet cloth. She stilled her hand, waiting to see what would happen, but nothing did. She resumed, humming to herself. Soon, another vibration rolled through him and then another. The ripples intensified, coming on stronger, one on top of the other until Mr. Hetfield trembled non-stop. He moved his head, his breath coming rapid and shallow. When he shifted his arm, a wounded animal sound came from him.  
  
“Mama! Come quick!” Florabel called, her young voice shrill with fear and excitement. “Mama! Hurry!”  
  
Seconds later, Emma swept in, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “What’s all this?” She rushed to examine the fevered man.  
  
“He’s movin’ around, Mama, but he’s shiverin’ like he’s cold.” Florabel’d been impatient for the man to wake up, but now his sudden twitches and moans unsettled and frightened her. “Look, his eyes is closed agin, Mama. They been just a-starin’ since yesterday. What do you reckon it means?”  
  
“I’m not sure, honey. Here, hand me that rag.” Emma took the cloth and dipped it in the water, running it over his brow. Mr. Hetfield shivered when she touched him, his muscles bunching and shrinking away from the cold cloth. The shivering increased until his teeth rattled like frenzied castanets, his eyelashes fluttering as he tried to open his eyes but couldn’t.  
  
“Shhh, Mr. Hetfield.” Emma’s cloth mirrored his restless wanderings, wiping him even as he lolled away from her cloth.  
  
“Nnuungghhh.” A guttural, involuntary moan escaped from him.  
  
“What’s happening to him, Mama?”  
  
“I think he’s just startin’ to come around enough to feel how sick he is. We gotta be gentle, but we gotta keep runnin’ that cloth over him no matter how much he protests. He’s still gone with fever.”  
  
“What’s wrong with his eyes?” His long lashes twitched and fluttered as the green orbs beneath maundered, landing nowhere and recognizing nothing. “Is he turning into a monster?”  
  
“You and your notions…people ain’t monsters, child.” Emma’s brows crimped with impatience. “He just ain’t got control of nothin’ yet, and his body is fightin’ his fever. Don’t you mind his eyes, now. Just keep cooling him.”  
  
Florabel wiped his face, shy and wary, taking care to avoid his roaming, quivering eyes. They scared her. She really hoped he wasn’t turning into a monster. He sure was moaning like one, though, she thought.  
  
Emma unwound the layers of bandaging, revealing the gummy, weeping infection. The skin around the wound had grown so tight and hot it had crested and separated, the top layer peeling away in white, flaky sheets. She smoothed his brow and quickly yanked the packing out of the inflamed bullet hole. When the man gasped and lurched up, Emma pulled Florabel off the bed. His eyes flew open in shock, glistening with an agony he could not properly communicate, and he collapsed onto his side. Florabel leapt in to try and help him, but Emma gripped her tight.  
  
“Stay away, Florabel.” The man made raspy, inarticulate clicking noises as his throat hitched with the pain. “Run and fetch Old Jeb here and tell him to bring the brown bottle from your papa’s old medicine chest. Hurry, Florabel.”  
  
“Like a jackrabbit, Mama!”

**

Emma heard the heedless bang of the screen door a few seconds later.  
  
“Mr. Hetfield, I’m so sorry.” Emma maneuvered some pillows behind him. A thick sheen of sweat coated his body and he panted like a wild, suffering animal. “I’m so sorry. I won’t touch your shoulder until we git you more comfortable.”  
  
“Ungh…Ungh….Unghhh.” His staccato ululations filled Emma with helpless pity. Her hand went to her mouth and she shook her head, wondering what god-awful pain a person had to be in to make those sounds. His eyes searched the room, falling on nothing solid, finding no relief from his torment.  
  
“Shhh…shhhh.” Emma cooed to him, offering what comfort she could. “It’ll be all right, Mr. Hetfield.” The man’s eyes rolled toward the sound of her voice, unfocused and cloudy with pain. His right hand jerked up to his shoulder, instinctively trying to protect it. Emma grabbed the arm and held it down.  
  
“You cain’t touch your shoulder, Mr. Hetfield. You got shot. You don’t want to make it worse.” She held his hand in hers, gripping it when he tried to pull away with each doleful cry of agony.  
  
“Keep your hand still. You mind me, now.” She chided him ever so gently. The young man’s eyes roved again in bewildered, shimmying sweeps, perhaps searching for some means of relief as his voice lilted through chattering teeth.  
  
Emma was never so happy to hear the screen door slam, and she blew out a breath of thanks when she heard Jeb’s lanky strides entering the kitchen. Florabel’s soft pattering feet raced down the hallway and into the bedroom.  
  
“I brought Old Jeb, Mama. He’s fetchin’ Papa’s medicine from the cabinet,” she said between gasps of breath. They must have run all the way from the bunkhouse.  
  
Jeb followed seconds later, also out of breath. “Here you go, Em. I’ll help you hold him,” he said, getting into position on the other side of the bed.  
  
“Keep his arm down, Jeb. He’s tryin’ to git at his shoulder.” She poured a glass of water and handed it to Florabel. “Hold this, good an’ tight, now, and be ready to hand it to me when I ask.”  
  
Emma got onto the bed with the sick man, and Jeb help situated Mr. Hetfield so that he leaned against her. Reaching her arm around his good shoulder, Emma tested her ability to clamp his jaw shut from that angle. He strained and whimpered, his eyes searching hers in confusion and misery.  
  
“Mama he’s a-cryin’. Look!” Florabel pointed to the tears trickling into his hair. Emma and Jeb tilted his head back a little further. “You’s a-hurtin’ him, Mama! Please stop!”  
  
“Florabel, hush! We’s gonna help him. This medicine is powerful strong, and it’s gonna make him feel a whole lot better in a few minutes, so just you wait and see, and don’t fuss at us.”  
  
“Why’s you holdin’ him down like that?”  
  
“He ain’t gonna like the taste of the Laudanum, and since he’s out’a his head, he’s gonna try and spit it right back out. Ain’t his fault, it’s just his body’s way of trying to rid itself of it, but he needs it whether he likes it or no. So we need to clamp his mouth shut until he swallers. I need to be able to clean his wound, but I cain’t with him hurtin’ as bad as he is.” She nodded at Jeb who’d picked up the bottle and spoon. “Now Jeb, just a little more’n half a spoonful.”  
  
The old man poured the brown liquid onto the spoon, recapped the bottle and set it on the nightstand to avoid knocking it over. Emma stroked the man’s face and gave Jeb the go-ahead with her eyes.  
  
“Here goes nothin’.” Jeb wedged the spoon into the man’s mouth and tipped the liquid in. Both adults clamped his jaw shut and held him tight. The man kicked and bucked against them, his neck tendons straining into taut, pluckable ropes. His face flushed, deep and dark, and he screamed through his forcibly clenched teeth.  
  
“Swaller, honey.” Emma rocked him and held her free hand to his temple, drawing circles there with the soft pad of her thumb. When she was sure he’d swallowed, she reached out to her daughter. “Hand me the glass of water, Florabel.”  
  
The child tottered up and passed her mother the glass, never taking her eyes off the man. Emma tipped the glass of water to his lips and poured in some of the liquid to help get the taste of the Laudanum out of his mouth. They sat there, holding him and whispering as the medicine started to work.  
  
Minutes passed and the young man’s body wilted, muscles twitching with aftershocks but growing limp and loose. His errant eyes slowly ceased their rapid wanderings, and what little thought had fueled his pain-stricken panic, now melted into a serene, dream-like sedation. His throat hitched and he swallowed, breathing out a shuddering sigh. Two final tears slipped down his cheeks as his lids closed. Emma brushed them away and continued to stroke his brow and offer wordless, hushed whispers of comfort. When he’d completely stilled, Emma and Jeb nodded to each other, shifting him back against the pillows. Emma covered him and wiped the sweat from his brow.  
  
“Well that was an experience I ain’t never gonna forget,” Jeb whispered and blew out a shaky whistle. “Lord A’mighty, that poor boy was plumb off his nut with pain. I ever git that bad off, Em, I want you to go to the bunkhouse and fetch my gun from my drawer and you just up and shoot me.”  
  
“Shhh.” She scolded him. “Jeb, you stop that nonsense. Ain’t no one shootin’ nobody. He’ll be more comfortable now.” She exposed Mr. Hetfield’s shoulder so she could clean it.  
  
“Is the medicine workin’, Mama?” Florabel tiptoed over and leaned on the edge of the bed.  
  
“It is. He’s gonna sleep for several hours. You can keep him cool for now, but from here on in if’n he starts movin’ or moanin’, you need to stop until one of us is here and says you can keep going. He’s strong and he don’t know what he’s doin’. He could hurt someone he’d be sorry about hurtin’ if he knew what he done. So don’t you keep touchin’ him if he so much as twitches.” She gave Florabel a tap to make the warning stick. “You hear me? Don’t forget.”  
  
“I won’t forget, Mama.”

* *

 _February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“Don’t you fret, now, darlin’, it’ll come back to you. Your name is Sam Ulrich. You work for OSHA and got hurt on a job site you were inspecting. You’ve been here with us at the clinic for a couple of days. You remember anything at all?” Abby finished taking his blood pressure and patted his arm.  
  
“I…I’m not sure.”  
  
“Well, it’ll come back to you. I’ll leave you with your aunt and uncle. I’m sure they’ll spark your memories.” She smiled and left the threesome alone.  
  
Sam’s eyes landed on the expectant couple. Before Abby had entered, they’d been grilling him for hours. They seemed like nice people and he wanted to please them, but he was drawing a blank, here.  
  
“Brother?” He picked up the conversation that Abby’s arrival had interrupted. He rubbed his forehead with his palm, hoping that would spark a light in his darkness. “I—I don’t remember.”  
  
“His name is Dean. You remember now?” the bearded guy said.  
  
“Sorry.” Sam gave the couple an awkward, guilty smile. “I’m still having trouble with your names, let alone some other guy’s.” Their expectant faces fell. But, hell, he was still working on remembering the names of small things like _cup, baseball hat, jacket, pencil_. That was task enough with the items right in front of him. He couldn’t picture a brother who was nowhere around. He had no point of reference and the whole thing made him dizzy. He shifted, wincing as pain fired in his side.  
  
The man and woman shared a frustrated glance. “All right, son. I’m Bobby and this here is Ellen. You ‘n me, we go way back. I’ve known you since you were pint-sized and droppin’ deuces in your drawers.”  
  
“And you’re my uncle?”  
  
Bobby pulled off his cap, scratched his scalp and heaved a sigh. “Technically speaking,” he lowered his voice, “not exactly. But we’re like family, or as good as. You’re a hunter, son. That ring any bells?”  
  
Ellen hit the man upside the head. “You can’t just blurt that out, Bobby. He’s gonna think we’re crazy.”  
  
“Dunno what else to do, Ellen. Doc says we have to talk to him about his life, and this is his life. I’d like to be gentler, but we need him to remember.” Bobby sat on the edge of the bed.  
  
“I’m a what?” Sam asked.  
  
“You’re a hunter, Sam. You and your brother were hunting a vengeful spirit and something happened. Do you remember anything? You’re a hunter.” He emphasized the word. “That has to mean something, Sam. Try and remember.”  
  
Sam looked at Bobby. It did mean something; although, he wasn’t able to process the imagery that assaulted him. The darkness crumbled as rapid-fire flashes of what he presumed were memories flitted through his inner viewer: him tossing a lighter into an open grave, pouring a line of salt across a doorway, a man with yellow eyes torturing a younger man, that same young man smashing a mirror, and on and on the images flashed, one overlapping the other. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the next thing he knew Bobby and Ellen had moved in closer, hovering, petting him, their voices breathy with suppressed excitement and worry.  
  
“Sam honey, you with us?” Ellen asked, brushing a smooth, maternal hand over his hair.  
  
“Slow and easy, boy. Big breaths. C’mon, now.” Bobby patted his arm. “In and out.”  
  
Sam worked to control his breathing, his brow pleating with pain. “I saw some things,” he said, confused. “But,” he strove to find the right words, “but they’re just pictures. I—I don’t remember it.” He rubbed his temples.  
  
“What did you see?” Bobby asked.  
  
“Just a bunch of flashes. I was with some guy. We were lighting a grave on fire. I saw a yellow-eyed man hurting him.” He sighed. “I could see everything, but I don’t remember it happening. I don’t know who those people are.”  
  
“It’s okay, Sam. It’ll come back. The other guy, freckled face? Good looking sonofabitch?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “Uhm, I guess.”  
  
Bobby nodded. “That’s your brother, Sam. That’s Dean. C’mon. Try and remember him.”  
  
Sam sat while Ellen rubbed his arm. “I don’t…I can’t remember.” He ran his hand through his hair, pulling the tips in frustration. “But I know something happened, something bad. I feel like I _should_ remember. It’s like everything is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t…” He closed his eyes in deep concentration. “Ugh, I can’t grasp it. I reach for it but there’s this darkness, this—wind—thing—between me and the memory.”  
  
“You’ll get there, Sam. Just hang in there,” Ellen said.  
  
Bobby stood for a thoughtful, quiet moment, studying the boy. “Look, Sam. I think the way to help you remember is to get back on the case, take a look at the construction site where you two were attacked. Maybe getting back on the hunt will be enough to jar loose the stubborn pieces. I know your ribs are gonna be sore, but you think you’d be ready to get out of here later today or tomorrow?”  
  
“I’m ready to leave now, as soon as I get dressed,” Sam said. “I need to know what the hell is going on, Bobby. I may not remember my brother, but I won’t leave him out there alone.”  
  
Bobby and Ellen exchanged snorts of approval.  
  
“Well, memory or not, you sure as hell still are Sam Winchester.” Bobby’s wide grin split his face.  
  
“Winchester?” Sam rolled the word around his mouth.  
  
“Never mind, y’damn fool,” Bobby said. “It’ll come back soon enough. Let’s just get you out of here.”  
  
Sam gripped his ribs and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “So I guess this means I don’t really work for OSHA?”

* *

 _February 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Florabel lay at the foot of the bed, resting her eyes for one sleepy moment. It was after midnight, and the young girl mulled over everything that’d happened the last few days, trying to make sense of it all.  
  
She remembered a time last year, just before the black blizzard, when her papa had roused her from sleep because he’d heard Mrs. Haffner’s cereus plant was fixing to bloom that night. With a quiet, naughty giggle, Papa had put a conspiratorial finger to his lips and they’d stolen away, leaving Mama sleeping with little Henry. Her papa had swung her onto his mighty shoulders, and together they’d walked under a million stars to the Haffner’s farm. It was past two in the morning when they’d arrived, just in time to witness the plant folks call _The Queen of the Night_ unfold and bloom in the dark, defying the dust and wind that had beaten it until its head had been lying half buried. But on that parched night in early July the bulb had fought the dust and unfolded despite everything.  
  
The plate-sized flower knew nothing of the drought. It had never seen the withering sun and never would. Its delicate, spiny petals reached toward the stars, and Florabel was sure they’d touch them before the night was over. Her papa had told her what a fine thing it was to know that even in the darkest of nights, amidst such hard doubt, that something so beautiful could stir and flourish. That night spent with the cereus flower was the last quiet moment she ever had with her papa, just the two of them, before the storm came and turned day into the darkest night ever.  
  
Her thoughts floated on. She remembered how her mama often used to say it was always darkest just before the dawn. The little girl knew that meant that sometimes things got really, really bad before they got better. They may not have had much experience with the ‘dawn’ part of the adage, but they both surely knew about the ‘dark’ parts.  
  
Take Mr. Hetfield, for instance. Yesterday she’d been so hopeful when he started moving and fussing. She’d thought it meant he was on the mend, but he’d gotten steadily worse since then. When he wasn’t asleep from the Laudanum, he thrashed about in pain and fear. He’d looked so hurt and confused, and that had hurt Florabel to see.  
  
She wanted to help him, but she didn’t know what to do. Neither her mama nor Old Jeb knew anymore than she did, so they kept giving him half a teaspoon of Laudanum every six hours or so to take the pain away and let him sleep. He wasn’t even able to drink water from a glass anymore, so her mama squeezed a wet cloth over his mouth and gave him something to drink that way. All three of them had taken turns running a cold cloth over him, but his fever only got worse.  
  
There had been another hopeful moment earlier that day, too. When her mama had cleaned the wound, she’d shown Florabel how the poultice had turned gray and speckled with blue-green spots. Truth to tell, it made Florabel’s stomach flip to look at, worse than his wound, but her mama assured her the spots were a good sign the poultice was working. Unfortunately, poor Mr. Hetfield wasn’t getting better at all.  
  
In fact, with things as bad off as they were, her mama, Old Jeb and even Slaid were all in the room tonight, because they were thinking the man might go to Jesus. All day long Mr. Hetfield’s breathing had gotten faster and faster, and ever since the sun had gone down, his moans and thrashes from his fever-dreams had gotten weaker and more pitiful. Old Jeb said the poor boy didn’t have the strength to fret much anymore. She’d overheard him say he reckoned the Mr. Hetfield would be with the saints before the sun came up. Florabel couldn’t bear the thought of it and had cried before a strong word from her mama had forced her to mind that he wasn’t family and to stop fussing over it. She did her best to be brave, but it didn’t seem fair. God had sent Mr. Hetfield to her, and now he was going to snatch him back before she could even find out what it all meant. Maybe he’d be like the cereus plant that bloomed when there was no cause or reason to believe it ever would. Maybe.  
  
Florabel stuck her knuckles in her sleepy eyes and gave them a good twist. She didn’t expect things could get much darker than they were now, so she hoped dawn wasn’t far off. Right when she put her hands together to ask Jesus to let her keep Mr. Hetfield, the bed started to shake and thump against the wall. Florabel’s lids snapped open and she bolted upright, staring wide-eyed. Everyone else jumped, too.  
  
“Lord above, he’s pitchin’ a fit!” Jeb leapt from the chair where he’d been drowsing. He tried to hold the sick man down, but Mr. Hetfield flailed out of his grip.  
  
“Florabel, run and fetch the wooden spoon!” Emma shouted, running to help Jeb pin Mr. Hetfield to the bed. The child stood rooted in place, part in horror—part in fascination as Mr. Hetfield’s muscles stretched tighter than she thought possible. His arms and legs thrashed like they had minds of their own while his eyes rolled deep in his head.  
  
“Florabel…now!”  
  
Uprooted by her mama’s shouts, Florabel ran to the kitchen, grabbed the spoon and tore her way back, handing it to her mother. Emma placed the handle between the man’s bloody teeth until the fit passed.  
  
“Is he dyin’ Mama?” she asked, whimpering. Emma didn’t answer. The woman looked at Jeb like she was about to cry herself.  
  
Old Jeb sighed real sad and sorrowful. “I think he’s fixin’ to pass, Em.”  
  
“Mama! Is he dyin’?” Florabel’s chest tightened, as if she had no more air to breathe. Emma ignored her, staring at Jeb as though he’d slapped her. “Mama?”  
  
Emma’s spun around, her face hard and dark. “Florabel, you git on out’a here, now. You go on and sleep in your own bed tonight.” Her mama’s voice propelled her out the door and down the hallway, but she stopped in the dark, gripping the wall with shaky hands and watched her mama turn to Mr. Hetfield.  
  
Old Jeb ran his hands through his gray hair. “You done everything you could, Em. It just don’t look like he’s gonna spring back.” Emma continued to study Mr. Hetfield, either trying to figure out some other way to help him or some way to ease his passing.  
  
Slaid moved in and let out a small snort. “Bah! He’ll be dead by morning.” He shrugged and bent down, pulling off the man’s fine, silver ring.  
  
“Slaid, you leave that be. What in hell’s gotten into you?” Jeb yanked the man away.  
  
“Devil Fighter won’t need it where he’s going. Better with us than in the ground with him.” Slaid shrugged him off, but Old Jeb wasn’t having it.  
  
“Ain’t nobody touchin’ nothin’. If this poor wretch gits his amazin’ grace tonight, then that thing ain’t goin’ to the likes ‘a you. You ain’t even been around in days nor pitched in to keep this boy breathin’. If he passes it’ll go to Em who ain’t slept in days trying to save him. You damn fool.” Jeb pushed him toward the door. “You git on now. Go on to the bunkhouse. We’ll take care of this boy. But if’n we need your help diggin’ a grave tomorrow, you best do it without any lip.”  
  
“Ya, big, circus-man sized hole. Big grave!”  
  
“Slaid, just shut your pie-hole an’ go.” Jeb pointed to the door.  
  
Florabel dashed around the corner from where she’d been lurking and crouched in the shadows. She saw Slaid come out and she prayed he wouldn’t see her. Once she heard the screen door slam in the night, she released a puffed breath of relief and crept back to the sick-room door. Hugging her knees to her chest, she continued her quiet vigil from the hall.  
  
“Don’t pay him no heed, Emma.” Jeb laid his wrinkled hand on the sick man’s head, watching him fight for each erratic, shallow breath. Jeb sighed. His voice was quiet and sad. “Why don’t we give this poor boy a few spoonfuls of Laudanum all at once and just let him go to God peaceful-like? He ain’t gonna last much longer’n a pint ‘a whiskey in a five-handed poker game as it is. We’d be doin’ him a mercy, Em. Look at him. He’s sufferin’ somethin’ terrible.”  
  
Florabel heard her mother’s seething intake of breath. She gave Jeb the kind of look Florabel knew better than to disobey. Her mama didn’t answer him. She turned and stripped the covers off Mr. Hetfield, leaving him lying in nothing but his under-shorts. A tremor ran through him in from the cold and he let out a washboard, rumbling groan. Emma went to the wardrobe and rooted through it.  
  
Old Jeb tried to reason with her. “Emma, come on, girl. You’s exhausted and you done your share. Now let this poor boy go. Even if he was to live, he won’t have no sense left, more’n likely. The fits and fever has surely balled up his head beyond repair.”  
  
Emma stepped back from the wardrobe holding two large fans. “Hush an’ help me, old man,” she said without warmth. “I ain’t a-gonna poison him just so’s we can git a good night’s rest. Shame on yuh, Jeb.” She handed him a fan. “Let’s git him wet from head to toe and we’ll fan him until his fever breaks or we do. I ain’t a-givin’ up.”  
  
“Em, what’s got you girl? You fussed at Florabel—gave her a right talkin’ to because she was gittin’ too attached. But you’s doin’ the same thing. You don’t even know this boy, Emma.”  
  
Emma released an angry huff and threw a rag into the bucket, pulling it out laden and dripping with water. She let the water slosh over the man’s arms, chest and legs. It pooled on his belly and trickled down his sides, wetting the bed beneath him. She lifted his legs and cooled the undersides of his thighs and wrung out the rag out a couple of times over his shorts, saturating the material. She immodestly placed sopping cloths in those private creases where his inner thighs met his groin.  
  
Florabel watched her wet the boy’s hair and wrap a cold cloth around his neck. The whole time her mama’s lips were set, thin and tight with defiance and determination. She only paused when the man’s throat hitched involuntarily and he wheezed out a quick, spiked wail. Each time his insensible protests became too loud or too rapid, she’d stop and murmur in his ear, whispering wordless encouragement. Despite the man’s frightful state, he calmed when her mama’s soothing hands caressed him. Once quieted, Emma stood back and started to fan him. She looked daggers at Old Jeb until he joined in, too.  
  
Only then did she speak. “It ain’t him.” She waved the fan back and forth. The man below her gasped and writhed in his delirium. “God help me, I’ll be sorry if he passes. I will. But it ain’t him I’m worried about. With everything this past year we been put through, Jeb…I cain’t…” She batted a tear away as it escaped her eye, a poignant betrayal of her cool, stolid expression. “I cain’t bear to watch my little girl lose one more thing that’s important to her. How will I ever convince her the world’s a good place to be if’n all she knows is this? Dust and death and then more dust on top of it.” She fanned the man faster and faster. “I don’t want Florabel to know only the bad parts of life. If’n he dies, how can my baby daughter ever understand that sometimes people git better? That God and Jesus is merciful and just? That sometimes you win an’ things turn out right? My daughter needs to win, just this once. I ain’t doin’ it for him. I’m doin’ it for my child. I’m doin’ it for me. I cain’t take a world so gray and dead, Jeb. I cain’t. When I breathe, all I taste is dust, and I feel like I’m chokin’ on it. So you keep fannin’ old man, and don’t you stop until his fever is broke—one way or the other.”  
  
Out in the hall, Florabel curled in on herself. Warm tears dripped off her chin and onto the cold, dark floor. Sleep closed in despite everything, and Jeb’s voice sounded far away.  
  
“All right, Em. I ain’t goin’ nowheres. You’s a terrible determined woman.” It sounded like admiration rather than judgement.  
  
The last thing Florabel heard was her mother speaking in that tone of voice that always made sure you did as you were told. “C’mon, let’s git to it,” she said. “We got work to do.”

* *

  _February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

“I s’pose you’ll be all right to get on out of here. Just so long as you keep them ribs bound up tight for a couple weeks at least.” 

“I will.  So, I’m good to go, then?” 

Doc eyed Sam up and down.  “How’s the memory?  Things comin’ back all right?” 

“Not a hundred percent, yet. But I’m getting there.  My aunt and uncle are helping me.” 

“I reckon it doesn’t much matter whether you’re in the clinic or not.  In fact, as I recall Jesse Gibson remembered everything the day he got home and saw his little girl.  The rest of him is healing just fine, now.  The boy’ll be ready to defend his title this summer.” 

“Title?” Bobby asked. 

“Why, he’s Boise City’s _Post Hole Diggin’ Champion_ three years runnin’ now.” Doc puffed out his chest.  “He’s the record holder.”  He cleared his throat as he watched three perplexed hunters sit there, blinking like owls.  “Well, that’s a big deal around these parts, anyway.”  He pulled himself up with dignity.   “Point is, gettin’ this boy into his familiar surroundings should help get the memories flowin’ better.  Leastwise that’s what we’ve found with the others.” 

Bobby gave Ellen a wincing glance.  “We’ll work it out one way or the other, Doc.” 

Doc bobbed his head.  “I’m sure you will.  Remember, everyone has come around eventually within a few weeks.  If he don’t bounce back, you just bring him on in and we’ll see if we can’t get him referred to a specialist.  But like I said, we ain’t found any sound medical explanation for it, so just keep talkin’ to him.  Aside from Matt’s crazy notions of ghosts, I’m thinking it’s all just stress.  Get rest and things’ll sort themselves out, I’m betting.  Abby will get started on your release forms, here, and she’ll bring them on in for you folks.”

Doc left them to help Sam get ready.  The boy rose from where he’d been sitting on the side of the bed. He teetered as he found his center. 

“You need a hand there, honey?” Ellen asked. 

“No, I got it, I think.”  He held his ribs and hissed, glancing about for clothes.  Ellen stepped over to the closet and tossed the plastic bag with Sam’s personal items to Bobby.  “Where exactly do I live?”   

“Uh, strictly speaking, son, you don’t have a permanent home.” Bobby handed him the bag.  “The closest thing you and Dean got is my house. Y’spent enough time there, eatin’ me out of house and home.” He smiled at Sam.  “But I hope it won’t take us dragging you up there to pry your sticky parts loose.  We still need to find Dean, first.  Trust me, it ain’t right that he’s not here.  Something’s happened.  He would never leave you alone.” 

Ellen nodded.  “Wasn’t more’n two weeks ago he went near crazy when he couldn’t find you.  He called me frantic with worry.  Something’s definitely wrong if he ain’t here.” 

Their words sparked a rapid flash of images that threw the young hunter off balance, and he lost his grip on the plastic clothes bag.  Both Bobby and Ellen lunged for him.  They half walked, half dragged him back to the bed.   

“Breathe, kid.” Bobby gripped his shoulders, anchoring him. 

Ellen rubbed circles on his back and traced her fingers through his hair. “You with us, Sam?” 

Sam rubbed his temples with shaky fingers, sucking air as fast as he could.  “I saw something.  Images.  I don’t remember it happening, but I think they’re memories.” 

“What did you see?” Bobby asked. 

“Me and some guy in an old house.  He was bleeding, gripping his shoulder.  He—he punched me.”

“That sounds like Dean.” Bobby huffed and rolled his eyes.  “He clocked you one good after we got Meg out of you.”  Sam gave Bobby a blank look, confused.  “Uh, don’t worry about that.” Bobby waved him off. “Not important right now.  What else did you see?” 

“Me and…Dean.” He tried the name on for size.  “We were in a building.  I was trying to hold on to him.” Sam winced, reliving the trauma. “There was so much wind. So much wind.” His eyes closed in concentration. “It hit us from all sides.” Shaking his head, he winced again. “That’s…that’s all. It’s gone. Damn it.”

“All right, Sam.” Ellen patted him. “No need to force an aneurysm. You did good. That’s much better ‘n we hoped.”

“I’m so close.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can feel it right there. I just can’t…I just can’t grab hold of it through that dark… _thing_. This is so frustrating.”

“Let’s just get you dressed. We’ll get a room, let you get some rest and then we’ll start fresh,” Bobby said. “Ellen, why don’t you leave gimpy with me here for a few and I’ll make sure he doesn’t put his drawers on backwards or catawampus.”

“Yeah. Sure.” She picked up the bag of clothes Sam had dropped and tossed it to Bobby. He caught the bag upside down and the small, leather strap fell onto the bed. Sam picked it up, focusing on it.

Fingering the small, horned amulet, Sam felt a sudden, nauseous gravitational pull, as though he had slipped right over the highest peak of a rollercoaster. The world tilted as an avalanche of images assaulted him: A small boy opening a newspaper-wrapped package on Christmas. A young man with a lopsided grin bent over a pool table. The same man, dragging Sam from a fire where someone…his girlfriend… _his girlfriend Jess_ …burned on the ceiling.  

Another twist in the track and his memory catapulted him in another direction. More images: The same man…Dean… _His brother, Dean_ …shooting the Shtriga while it fed on him. Dean in the car, belting out songs off key. Dean in the Impala. _Dean’s Impala_. Dean cleaning his weapons. Dean standing broken and blank as they watched their father’s corpse burn.

The track fell away and he was free-falling now. No longer impersonal playbacks, the images blossomed into full memories. He felt bloated and pregnant with them: Dean punching him when he’d tried to warn him about Gordon. Dean weeping on the side of the road somewhere in the mountains, riddled with guilt for merely being alive. _Dean._

Sam had no tactile sense of Bobby and Ellen laying him back on the bed… _Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle…Jesus!_ It took several moments before he heard anything beyond the buzzing in his head as memory after memory crashed over him.

“In and out Sam. In and out,” were the first words that penetrated. He folded in on himself, disoriented and nauseous. Bobby’s hand gripped his, squeezing. “Come on Sam. Open up.”

Sam snatched a lungful of air and steadied himself. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying on the bed in a pool of sunlight. Bobby and Ellen stood over him, worried and expectant.

“Jesus.” Sam heaved a breathless grunt. “Jesus, Bobby.”

“You remember, don’t you, boy?” Bobby gave his shoulder a firm grip. Sam looked at the amulet dangling in his fingers, shut his eyes and took another greedy breath. He swallowed and nodded.

“Dean…” He gasped and his eyes flew open. He flung out a hand, fisting Bobby’s collar.

“What, Son? What do you remember? What happened to Dean?”

“I couldn’t hold on, Bobby. I tried. But we fell and…” Sam closed his eyes against the memory.

“And what, sweetie?” Ellen asked, bending close.

“That thing. It _knew_ him.” Sam clutched the amulet to his heart with a trembling hand. “And it took him.”


	5. Howjadoo

__

_February 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Florabel hugged herself as she surfaced from her unsettled sleep. Sitting up coltishly, she wobbled and burbled as she reoriented herself. Still lying on the cold, hard floor outside the bedroom door where Mr. Hetfield had been dying last night, she wiped the sludge from the corners of her mouth and coughed up some sooty grit. Blinking the dusty crust away, she focused on the now-closed door before her.  
  
She listened for movement or any sign of activity coming from within, but she heard only sad silence. Florabel’s shoulders bowed with the weight of her dread as she stood and opened the door. Shivering in the doorway with her bare legs knocking together from cold and nerves, she peered in.  
  
Her mama sat in the old rocker wrapped in a shawl, her head resting against her shoulder as she slept. Old Jeb sat slumped in the corner chair, legs outstretched and crossed, one over the other. He snored into his knobby hands that lay steepled on his chest. Florabel padded to the foot of the bed and forced herself to look. Mr. Hetfield lay stiff and still, a blanket draped up to his chest, just like her papa on that awful day last summer. She remembered her mama walking her into the room right after he had gone to Jesus so she could kiss his cold forehead and say goodbye.  
  
The child’s chest constricted with sorrow, her breath hitching and rumbling as she looked at the man. A tear dripped down her cheek. When she wiped at it, her fingers came away brown from all the dust on her face. As she fought grief she wasn’t supposed to feel for a stranger, her eye perceived a small movement. With a snuffle, she swallowed and stepped close enough to get a better look. There it was again. The blanket covering Mr. Hetfield’s chest moved.  
  
Mr. Hetfield was breathing.  
  
She tiptoed around the bed and leaned close, her innocent hopes rising like sap in a spring thaw. She put her little hand to Mr. Hetfield’s brow. It wasn’t hot with fever. It wasn’t cold with death. It was warm with sleep. It was warm with life.  
  
“Florabel.”  
  
Turning, Florabel saw her mama shake her head, telling her to leave the sleeping man alone. Emma pressed a finger to her lips then smiled, tiredly opening her shawl, inviting her daughter to join her. The child scampered into her arms and received a crushing hug that revived her, more refreshing than rain. She puddled in her mother’s embrace and together the two women rocked and watched the sleeping man.  
  
“He looks peaceful and quiet,” Florabel whispered.  
  
Her mother’s lips moved as they rested against the top of her head. “His fever broke about two hours ago,” she whispered back. “Your poultice is savin’ his life, baby girl.”  
  
Florabel felt a warm breath and a kiss graze her ear, and she turned and buried her face into the soft, welcoming flesh of her mother’s neck.  
  
“You saved him, too, Mama.” She gazed into her mother’s serene face. “I heard you, Mama. I heard what you said to Old Jeb. The world is a good place to be, Mama,” she said. “Mr. Hetfield didn’t want to go to Heaven, even with all them diamonds and gold on the gates. He decided to stay put where he was, so I reckon it’s gotta be purty good here, too.”  
  
“I reckon you’s right,” Emma said with a smile.  
  
The two women rocked together until their eyes closed. Florabel snuggled deeper into her mother’s arms and let sleep roll over her. Mr. Hetfield was alive. Everything was going to be fine, now.  
  
She’d never felt more contented and safe.

* *

The jackrabbit twitched and screamed in his skeletal fingers. Slaid squeezed harder. The house remained asleep as he crossed the dusty yard, and he wondered when they were going to order him to dig that big grave. He needed to hurry before they called for him. He slipped into the barn with his tithe.  
  
Slaid lifted the trap door and descended into the noisome root cellar. Laying his fresh offering on the grizzly altar, he lit the lamp and removed his clothing. The lamplight did nothing to revitalize the pallor of his skin as he stood naked and shivering in the musty, fetid air. Taking a jagged knife from the altar, he slit the rabbit from end to end and, with a greedy eye, watched the blood pool on the slab of wood. He swirled his fingers in the blood and lifted them to his mouth, delicately savoring each warm drip onto his tongue.  
  
He’d found the innocent thing in his trap, had taken his time wringing its neck, each bleat and scream causing pulses of pleasure to shoot up his spine and into his cock. Watching the spark douse in its eyes had thrilled and aroused him—had purified him. He’d be worthy to receive the Hala’s blessings soon. He was sure of it.  
  
Summoning the wind-demon had been the easy part. He still couldn’t control it—couldn’t harness its power and energy. Not yet. It would take more than a jackrabbit to make him worthy, but he had to start somewhere. Once he had its power and energy, then everyone in that house would bend their knee to him. Do for him. Live for him. Die for him if he asked. The woman and little girl had never taken note of him, no matter how hard he’d tried to show them how much he wanted them, how much he loved them. And the little one, she was frightened of him now, ever since that night just before Christmas when the monster inside him had escaped. But one day soon, once he’d taken the Hala’s stormy spirit as his own, once he was worthy enough, she would no longer run. She would love him. She wouldn’t dare _not_ love him.  
  
Bending his head until it touched the blood on the altar, he prostrated himself, uttering monosyllabic grunts of devotion. He played with the rabbit until his hands dripped with gore. Touching his chest and nipples, he left a sensual trail of horror as he worked down his belly and grabbed his hard dick. With a gurgle of excitement, he used the slick rabbit-blood and entrails to help satisfy himself.  
  
“Soon—soon—soon.” He synchronized his hoarse, lustful whispers in time to his ravenous strokes. Soon he would be worthy. They would love him, belong to him, worship him. He stroked himself faster and faster until his whispers ended in the high-pitched, jerking hiss of release.

* *

 _February 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
He awoke to the sound of whispering. He’d learned enough to know what that was. He’d spent a couple of…somethings… _days_ …listening and learning, or relearning maybe. He wasn’t sure which it was. After some odd flashes, he’d begun to think it was the latter.  
  
At first there had been nothing but whispered commands and a black, vicious wind that threatened to rip him to pieces. Then there’d been pain. Absolute agony. After that there’d been a complete blank, the absence of anything he’d experienced—wind, whispers, pain—all of it gone. He’d been fine with that, too, to be honest. Finally, absence gave way to something, or, well, someone. There’d been two people, a…small thing… _a girl_ …and an attractive woman. They’d given him something… _water_ …and it was the best thing he’d ever known. He couldn’t get enough of it. The woman always pulled the thing…the _glass_ …away before he was near done. It had been so disappointing that he’d whimpered. The woman wouldn’t give him more water, though. Instead she stroked his head, which felt amazing, sure, but it wasn’t water, so he’d whimpered some more. She’d whispered things to him, but he hadn’t learned what words were yet, so he just listened until things got dark again.  
  
He learned the meaning of words from the little girl who sat next to him every day. She talked a lot. Like, _a lot_. So when things started connecting or _reconnecting_ , maybe, he heard all about Molly and Penny and how it wasn’t very fair that Lizzy Crawford had been born with beautiful raven curls and this little girl had been cursed with straight gold. But since she was supposed to be grateful Jesus made her that way, she wasn’t allowed to fuss about it. Though, he thought, technically that might qualify as fussing; he wasn’t sure. When she wasn’t sitting in the… _rocking chair_ …next to him, she would clamber right onto the bed with him and nestle into the crook of his unhurt arm. She’d do that when she was holding a thing…a _book_ …upright for them to read together. He couldn’t read, so she told him all about Mrs. Wiggs, the cabbage patch she lived in, and her dutiful son, Jim. The little girl read to him until his eyes closed no matter how hard he tried to keep them open.  
  
He’d learned a whole lot in the short time he’d been laying there, and most of the words spoken to him meant something, now. Yet, whenever he tried to reach further back in time, beyond the bed—beyond Mrs. Wiggs and the little girl, he saw and heard only that black, coiling wind and the frightening whispers. So, now, when he woke to whispering, he’d been alarmed at first. The more he listened, though, the more he realized it was just the little girl, and her whispers were not terrifying like those carried by the black wind. Besides, she’d been one of the people giving him water, so he liked her on that score alone. Maybe if he opened his eyes she’d give him some. _That would be so fucking awesome!_ Wow, a new word he didn’t even remember learning. Progress! He strove to open his eyelids, but they were so heavy and comfortable where they were, he let them be and listened to her whisper, instead.  
  
“It ain’t the Measles, Mrs. Fuller!” she said in a hoarse, crabby whisper.  
  
“Are you sure, Doc? Ain’t them the pox spots right there?” said the same voice, only a much higher, more anxious version.  
  
“Them ain’t spots! I’m a Doctor, I know these things. Git a hold of yourself, woman! Them things is just freckles,” the huffy one said.  
  
“Praise Jesus! But he ain’t said a word. He ain’t deaf is he? Oh, please don’t say it Doc. Don’t say it!” came the soft whispered cries.  
  
“Well, let’s just see, here.” The raspy one smacked her lips.  
  
The bed bounced and something small and wet penetrated his ear canal. It wiggled around and… _tickled_. His eyes got really light then, and they flipped open in surprise.  
  
The little girl noticed him and pulled her finger out of his ear. She scooted back to the chair, face sheepish, rocking and swinging her legs with placid nonchalance. The two of them watched each other for a moment.  
  
Noticing the glass on the stand, he glanced from the water to the little girl, trying to get her to give him some. But the ceiling now held her full attention, and she studied it while she rocked and… _whistled_. He thought for a moment and decided to give speaking a try. If she could do it, he should be able to. He cleared his throat and blew out a breath with words in it.  
  
“Water?” It sounded like tires on gravel, but the word was unmistakable.  
  
“You spoke!” The little girl’s eyes lit up. “Hey pal, you spoke!” She came close to his face. “Can y’say anything else?”  
  
He gulped some more air and tried again. “Can I have some water?” he asked and then remembered another word. “Please?”  
  
A huge smile creased her face. “You can talk! Holy mackerel!” She grabbed his good arm and bounced up and down in excitement. “We was so worried, you just cain’t know! You nearly went to Jesus more’n once. You got shot up, bad. Who done that to you, anyway? My name’s Florabel. I’m so glad you ain’t deaf. You ain’t is ya?” She never stopped for breath.  
  
He wondered if he’d said it right or not. He stared at the little girl and then made a small nudge toward the water and looked back at the little…thing…at _Florabel_.  
  
“Oh! Sorry, pally. Here y’go. Just a few sips, now. Mama says you’ll pitch it all back out if’n you drink more.” She held the glass to his lips, and he drank as much as he could before she took it away. He tried to follow the glass as it moved out of reach, but a jagged pain in his shoulder and arm stopped him. “Lie on back now. You’ll hurt yourself.” The little girl put the glass down, tucked some stray hairs behind her ear and then wagged a finger at him. “You can have more in just a little bit. Let yer tummy sit.”  
  
“More?” he said. “Please?”  
  
“Not yet, pally.” She gave him a sympathetic pat. “Just a few minutes, an’ then we’ll see if you pitch it up or not.”  
  
When he was well enough, he swore he’d drink all the damn water he wanted. He couldn’t do that yet, though. Even a small move sent spikes of pain up his neck and scalp and then all the way down to his fingertips. He collapsed against the pillow from the pain.  
  
“You okay, Mr. Hetfield? You in pain?” She smoothed his hair. “Mama’s sleepin’ a spell. She been up all night with you. I think Old Jeb is catching us some more jackrabbits. I cain’t give you no Laudanum. Mama said I ain’t allowed, only her and Jeb is.” She bit her lip, worried.  
  
“It’s okay.” As long as he didn’t move, the pain in his shoulder was bearable. “Water?” he asked again.  
  
“Land sakes, you really like water, don’t ya?” She dragged the rocking chair closer and sat. “I’ll give you more in just a minute. How’d you git shot?”  
  
He didn’t know he had been shot. But a sudden image flashed behind his eyes. He saw a dock and water. Lots of water. He heard a loud pop and then he saw himself clutch his shoulder and drop into the water.  
  
“I fell.”  
  
“You didn’t git that by fallin, pally. Someone shot ya. Who done it?”  
  
He thought about it, but all he saw was darkness and water. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Don’tcha remember?” She grabbed the water and let him drink. He drank until she took the glass away again.  
  
He shook his head, but the movement stretched his shoulder, and a small groan escaped before he could stop it. “I don’t—I don’t remember.”  
  
“Don’t ya remember nothin’? Do you remember your name?” she asked, wide eyed.  
  
She had called him something, but he’d already forgotten the last name. Nothing sounded familiar. What was it she’d called him?  
  
“Pally?”  
  
The girl laughed and slapped her thigh. “No, no, no!” she giggled. “That means ‘friend’. You know…a pal.” She continued to laugh. “Your name is Mr. Hetfield. Mr. Dean Hetfield. But I’m gonna call you Pally from here on in.” She stuck her finger in the air to lend weight to her declaration.  
  
Dean Hetfield. The last name meant nothing. The first name, though…that did. _Dean_. A giddy, nauseating sensation rolled through him. He could hear someone calling that name, screaming it in terror. The same someone held him tight, until a sharp crack sent him tumbling into a twisting, dark storm. When he came out of the cloud, Florabel was talking a mile a minute.  
  
“If y’need to pitch up, do it here.” She shoved a small bowl under his chin. “You okay, Pally? Oh my goodness.” She whimpered to herself, wiping away some sweat that had beaded on his brow. “Don’t fret, now. It’ll be all right. There, there…” She parroted the other woman’s sayings. “Don’t take on so. Deep breaths.” She rubbed his cheek fast and hard.  
  
“M’okay.” He brushed her over-enthusiastic hand off his face. After several breaths, the room stopped spinning so much.  
  
“You remember anything at all?”  
  
He grimaced and thought a moment. “Nothing but a black wind. I saw some flashes, but I don’t remember anything.”  
  
She nodded and sighed. “Your fever got too high. Mama said your brain got cooked ‘cause of the fits.” She looked at him with sad eyes. “You might'n be an idiot, now, too.” She gave him the bad news along with a sip of water, which he accepted gratefully.  
  
“I don’t remember any of that.”  
  
Florabel nodded again. “You wouldn’t. You was so sick, though, Pally. Fever was burnin’ you up. You was hotter’n a whore house on nickel night.” She set the glass on the stand. “Anyway, that’s what Old Jeb said when we was wipin’ you down together while Mama slept.”  
  
“Awesome.” He rolled his eyes, embarrassed. “Good times.”  
  
“Wasn’t awesome at all. It was a cruel, hard time.” She furrowed her little brows. “We was all worried. But then my poultice finally started workin’.” She beamed and pointed to the bandage resting on his shoulder. “An’ your fever broke two nights ago. You been sleepin’ a lot since then, but Mama has to dose you up with medicine when she tends your shoulder, ‘cause you git to wailin’ so bad with pain. Laudanum makes a person mighty happy and sleepy.”  
  
They were quiet for a moment. There was so much he needed to know, but he didn’t know where to begin. “Where am I?” he asked at last.  
  
“You’s in my grand-papa’s old room, but he don’t need it no more. He died when I was real little. I don’t ‘member him much.” Florabel rocked herself.  
  
“Uh, okay, but where’s here? What is this place?”  
  
“It’s our farm, silly Pally.” She squinted at him as though trying to figure out just how much of an idiot the fever had made him, maybe. When she spoke her words were slow and extra loud. “We live north of Boise City. Why, that’s just the biggest city in all of Cimarron County,” she said and then laughed. “But then the only other town is Keyes and that’s smaller ’n Boise City by far.” She studied his blank expression. “In Oklahoma.”  
  
“Oklahoma?” That name had a ring of familiarity to it, but he didn’t remember anything about it. Like the word ‘chair’, it held meaning for him, but no specific flashes accompanied the word like they did for ‘Dean’. His location didn’t spark any reaction, so he tried another question. “How did I get here?”  
  
“You got shot and came to our barn to rest a spell, I reckon. I dunno how you got shot, though, or who done it. Old Jeb was hopin’ you’d be able to say, ‘cause he thought you was a bank robber or a G-man or somethin’. He’s gonna be fit to be tied when he finds out you don’t know,” she said. “An’ you broke our barn, too. That weren’t very nice, Pally. It’s gonna take a lot of work to fix it, and Old Jeb’s arthritis is purty bad.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I did what?”  
  
“Our barn is all cut up inside, and they was even some stuff there that weren’t ours, wood and big beams. We found you in the middle of the mess. Maybe it weren’t you, though. Maybe it was the bad man who shot you. Dunno for sure. Maybe when you’s better you can help Old Jeb fix it.”  
  
“Who’s Old Jeb?”  
  
The little girl grinned. “You ask a lot of questions! Folks always say I do, but I think you ask more,” she said with a snicker. “Old Jeb. He’s our farmhand. He used to live a few farms over, but then his wife died of Dust Pneumonia. After that the bank come and took his farm back. And that’s an odd thing, Pally. ‘Cause his house and barn—they’s still right there, but everyone says the bank took it away from him. Anyway, he cain’t stay there no more, so he sleeps in our bunkhouse now. We used to have a dozen farmhands, but when it stopped raining and the dust come, most’a them farm-boys all left and went on their way. Weren’t no more crops to bring in anyway, and the cattle was all starvin’, so a government man came by, gave my mama a little money and shot ‘em all dead. It was real sad, Pally. Some of them cows was my friends. Then the last few boys who was here left when President Roosevelt gave ‘em all jobs with the CCC.”  
  
“The CCC?”  
  
“I dunno what it is, but Mama says all them boys, Grumpy Joe, Short Bill and the others, all live somewhere in Washington State or someplace, now. They’s buildin’ stuff. But Old Jeb was too old for the CCC, so he had to stay put. He fixes little things for Mama and he’s nice. He brings us all the jackrabbits we can eat. It’s just Old Jeb and Slaid, now.”  
  
“Slaid?”  
  
Florabel eyed the ground and fidgeted. “He’s our other farmhand.” Her face turned dark. “But you just stay clear of him, Pally.” She pulled her knees up and hugged herself, nervous energy rocking the chair back and forth, back and forth. Dean raised his eyebrow at her. She bent close, shooting paranoid, fearful glances around the room. “I don’t think he’s human. I saw him change into a monster, Pally, and it was the scariest thing ever!”  
  
“A monster?” As he said the word he had that nauseous, whirling feeling again. He shut his eyes to try and right himself, but a sudden burst of images spun around him as though he were a lone spindle tethered by countless threads. He heard himself moan as the stuttering scenes churned and overlapped before him: he saw himself lying in a puddle of water as a mountainous, growling monster approached. He fired a gun that sent out a thin, coiling wire, hitting the thing and sending streaks of white light jolting through both of them. Next, he was in a dark place…a cave or shaft of some sort…a starved, pallid monster roared at him. He pulled another trigger and an explosive flare of fire lit the creature up. Another image: he and two others ran through an orchard chased by a scythe-wielding scarecrow. He flinched as he watched the monster run its scythe through another man and walk off with him. He felt a small hand tapping his face. It was the little girl, and she was scared.  
  
“Pally! Wake up! Wake up!” she called, slapping his cheek. He opened his eyes and brought his right hand up to stop her. White-hot pain in his shoulder stole his breath away.  
  
“I’m okay. Stop, please.”  
  
Florabel eased off of him. “I thought you was fittin’ agin, Pally. Please be okay. I don’t want you to have another fit. It scares me when you thrash about.” Her blue irises pooled with worry.  
  
“I’m fine.” He drew a lungful of air as Florabel offered him water. He took a drink and then tried to lie still so his shoulder would stop throbbing. “I saw something.”  
  
“What didja see?”  
  
“I—I think I saw a monster, too. A few of ‘em. Are there lots of monsters in the world?”  
  
“Mmm, I don’t rightly know. I think most monsters hide purty well. My friend Lizzy says they was a big one under her bed, but no one but her ever saw it. And how big can a monster be that lives under your bed? I think maybe Lizzy was mistook. But Slaid is definitely one, so don’t make him mad, Pally.”  
  
Dean ran his hand over his face and scratched the thick stubble on his chin. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel normal. Nothing made any sense.  
  
“Try to lie still and calm. Once Mama wakes up, she’ll give you some medicine. Try and hang in there, Pally. It’ll be all right.” Florabel stroked his hair, and he had to admit it felt nice. His eyelids grew heavy.  
  
He let her soothe him a moment before opening his eyes again. “So,” he asked, confused. “Just you and your mother live here? Where’s your father?”  
  
“Just me and Mama now.” Florabel’s face fell and her eyes kindled with grief. “This was my grandpapa’s farm, my mama’s papa. And I think it was his papa’s homestead before that. Why, my mama was born right in this very room, in this very bed.” She patted the mattress. “Then she and my papa got married and they worked the farm with Grandpapa. And when I was born my papa said it was one of the best days of his life, ‘cause the wheat was in the ground and I was out’a Mama’s tummy.” She smiled at old memories.  
  
“It was a big farm, Pally—one of the biggest in the whole wide world, thank you very much!” Pride pushed out her chest. “They was lots of people workin’ here and lots and lots of wheat and barley—lots of cows an’ horses, too. They was me and Mama and Papa and baby Henry. He was my little brother. He was born when I was five, and boy did he give slobbery kisses.” She laughed at the memory and even wiped her cheek as though she’d just been hit by one. Her small hand curled around the kiss she’d wiped off and held it to her heart.  
  
She sobered. “But then the dust came, and last summer my papa took real sick with the Dust Pneumonia. He got caught in a black blizzard walking home from town, and he breathed in too much dust. So then, Old Jeb and Mama lathered him up with lots of skunk oil and turpentine and tried to git him to cough up the dust, but he couldn’t breathe no more. And he died, Pally.” She rocked and looked at the wet sheet covering the window.  
  
“And we had to go to town and stand around his grave. The Preacher talked about my papa. But I could tell he didn’t really know him, ‘cause he didn’t talk about how his whiskers tickled when he held me tight or how he’d play the fiddle for me, even when his fingers was stiff and cracked from diggin’ up caliche rocks. He knew how much I loved hearing him play. The preacher didn’t say nothin’ about that. He didn’t say nothin’ about how he’d put me on his shoulders and I’d be tall as a silo or how he knew right where Mama’s ticklish spot was. Preacher just said what a good man of God he been, even though I heard my papa cuss enough to make baby Jesus weep with shame. He wouldn’t stop even when Mama fussed at him.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Dean felt horrible that he’d touched off her sorrow. He wished he hadn’t asked, now.  
  
“I miss his whiskers. You got some whiskers now, too.” She pointed to his chin. “Maybe mama can shave ‘em off for you tomorrow, if’n y’want.”  
  
He touched the spiky hair growing on his face. “I think I’d like that.”  
  
“My papa died last July, and it was the worst thing.” She went on. “I didn’t think I would ever see my mama so sad agin, but then baby Henry took sick with the Dust Pneumonia, too. Him and his juicy kisses. He kept a-coughin’ up brown dust, but he couldn’t eat nothin’. If’n he did eat, he’d just pitch it right back up. Mama never ever stopped trying to make him better. Then November 14th came along and I was sittin’ on the bed watchin’ Mama hold him and rock him right here in this chair. She sung real nice for him, tellin’ him how God and Jesus was gonna help him git better. I was sittin’ real quiet when I saw my mama look at Henry, and she just…” She stopped rocking and folded her hands in her lap.  
  
She picked at her fingers a while and then spoke again. “She just started screamin’ his name, and she held him so tight, Pally. I ain’t never seen nobody hold something so tight before. She bent down, cryin’ and screamin’ into his little chest. I ain’t never heard Mama make those kinds of sounds before nor never since. I don’t think those sounds can come out of folks on just any day. I ain’t never gonna forget it as long as I live. Old Jeb tried to calm her down so’s he could take baby Henry from her, but she kept pullin’ his little body back and she was screamin’ and cryin’ so fierce. She even hit Old Jeb for touchin’ Henry when she was trying to hold onto him. I never seen Mama hit anyone before. It was the worst thing I ever did see. I don’t never want to see my mama sad like that agin, no how.”  
  
She rocked for another quiet moment, studying her legs as they pumped the chair into motion. “She couldn’t even go and stand by his little grave they dug up right beside Papa’s. Just me, Old Jeb, Lizzy Crawford and her Mama and Papa, and our church friends was there. And you know what, Pally? It snowed that day. It snowed right on his grave, and I thought how much Henry would ‘a liked that. He ain’t never seen snow. But they was such big flakes, and it made the dust all thick like paste, but it was purty when it was fallin’ that day. People was sayin’ it was a miracle an’ that the drought was over. But it ain’t snowed or rained since then. So I think the angels was just cryin’ with my Mama and them tears just froze on the way down to Earth.”  
  
She stopped rocking. The little girl tensed and spoke to the ground. “After that, Mama got sick and couldn’t git out ‘a bed for two weeks. She wasn’t sick in her body, though. Old Jeb said she was sick in her heart from watchin’ my brother pass. Old Jeb stayed with her that whole time.” Her voice sunk to a raw whisper. “An’ that’s when I seen Slaid turn into a growlin’ monster. It was a bad awful time, Pally. We ain’t even been back to church since Henry passed away, ‘cause I think Mama is mad at God, maybe. She don’t think it’s fair God has my papa and Henry, both. That’s why she worked so hard to keep you here. She didn’t want God to take you, too. So she yelled at Old Jeb and tol’ him to shut up about you dyin’ an’ made him work extra hard to git you through the night. And here you is.”  
  
The room became quiet. Too quiet. “Thank you for taking care of me,” Dean said, finding his voice. “I’m sorry about Henry.” He didn’t know what else to say. Florabel nodded, agreeing, no doubt, that words were pretty useless sometimes.  
  
Dean tried to relax a moment. He was still as confused as ever, though. He had no recollection of how he came to be here, what he had been doing or even who he was, but these people had surely known worse suffering than he had. Who was he to complain about not being able to remember things right off the bat? He knew the images he’d seen were important, but when he tried to remember more, there was nothing there beyond a black cyclone. The whispering had been so pervasive he could still hear the strange incantation echoing in his mind: _Én itt beidéz, Hala. A szél az Ördög!_ None of those whispered words were at all close to the words spoken by the little girl. He was mulling it all over when the door opened.  
  
“Mama!” the child called. “He’s awake agin. He can talk, now, too!” Florabel sailed off the chair and ran to her mother, nearly tipping over the tray she carried.  
  
“Careful, Florabel!” She got a better bid on the tray before it fell.  
  
Florabel pulled her into the room. “See, Mama…he’s awake, but he don’t remember nothin’ from before he woke up. I don’t think the fever left him with much sense. Hurry! Come see!”  
  
“Gracious, Florabel, mind your manners.” She gave Dean an awkward smile, setting her tray on the bedside table.  
  
“He don’t remember his own name, Mama. I had to tell him what it was.”  
  
“Florabel, don’t you be talkin’ about him like he ain’t even here.” She scolded her daughter and turned to Dean. “I’m sorry. She’s just excited. My name is Emma Livingston. I’m real glad you’s awake. You been real sick. How do you feel now?”  
  
Dean felt awkward and out of place. He didn’t like people looking at him, didn’t like being the center of attention. “I’m fine,” he said and then winced when he tried to shift himself in the bed.  
  
“Mmm, I think you’s fibbin’ a little,” Emma said. “Here, I brought you some broth for you to drink before I take a look at your shoulder. You’s startin’ to waste away some. You just sit back an’ let me do the work.” She raised a spoonful of the hot broth to his lips. It was mostly water, but it was hot and hearty. It was pleasant enough and, more importantly, it was wet, so he accepted it without a word. “You don’t remember how you got shot, Mr. Hetfield?” she asked in between spoonfuls.  
  
“You can call me Dean. I think I like that better.”  
  
“All right, Dean,” she said, her eyes shy in her pretty face. “You don’t remember who shot you?”  
  
Dean hesitated. He didn’t want to talk about himself, but she stared at him, holding the spoon back until he answered. “I don’t remember anything. I’m sorry. I saw some flashes of monsters, but that’s it,” he said, hoping it would be enough to get him some more broth. Florabel’s eyes bugged as she stood behind her mother’s shoulders, and she shook her head, indicating he shouldn’t have said that.  
  
“Monsters?” Emma blew out a dubious huff. “Them were just fever dreams.”  
  
He spotted Florabel nodding like crazy, telling him to go with that. “Uh, I guess,” he said. “But I—I don’t remember anything else.”  
  
Emma gave him some more broth. “Your fever was high. You was convulsin’. Might’n be things got rattled wrong. Maybe you’ll remember as you heal.” She didn’t ask him anything else. When he finished, she put the bowl on the tray and grabbed the brown bottle and a spoon. “I need to clean your wound, now. I’m gonna give you some Laudanum, so’s you can tolerate me touchin’ it. Florabel will git you some water to drink after. It’ll make you sleepy, but I’m sure Florabel talked you near to death, anyhow. A nap’ll do you good.” She poured some brown liquid onto the spoon. “Open up.” She opened her mouth in demonstration.  
  
Dean cringed the moment the bitter liquid hit his taste buds. He was pretty sure he’d never tasted anything worse than this in his life, fever be damned. No way he’d have forgotten the taste of something so foul no matter how bad his memory may be. It tasted like ass with a hint of cinnamon. His stomach lurched as he swallowed. “Guhhh.” He shivered with disgust.  
  
“Keep it down, Dean.” Emma rubbed his good arm empathetically. When it appeared it was going to stay put, she relaxed and let Florabel give him a few sips of water. “It’ll just take a few minutes for it to work, and then we’ll git you cleaned up. Last time I looked, your shoulder was already doin’ much better. As long as we keep it clean and the poultice moist and sproutin’, you should heal all right. Ain’t sure what use your arm will be when you’s healed if’n more damage was done on the inside, but they ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. We’ll just have to hope for the best. Once you’ve healed some, we can rub your arm and work it so it stretches back out. For now keep it still.”  
  
Dean had no feeling in his left arm beyond the ferocious pins and needles in his fingertips and a jagged jolt of pain in his elbow if he moved his shoulder or head at all. The limb didn’t obey any command to move. After a few minutes, though, it no longer worried him. The room began to aspirate the most amazing colors, and hazy raindrops of light fell around him, mesmerizing and enchanting. The ceiling rippled with beautiful patterns, and the big sheet over the window billowed and wafted seductively— _like a fuckin’ tampon commercial! Awesome, dude! Just need ‘Revolution #9’ playing and it’ll be a party._  
  
Random thoughts flitted through his head, the origins of which he had no clue, but it didn’t much matter. He grinned at Emma. She returned the smile and caressed his forehead. She looked hot. _Like a smokin’ Playboy-bunny—Farm-girl Edition—hot. Like, hot as fucking hell—hot. Gorgeous blue eyes with pale skin, dark blond hair falling all careless around her neck. Like, holy fuck, that bitter, brown shit is amazing!_ He could see the little girl talking away, but he couldn’t make out a damn word. He loved her spunk, though. _Cute kid. I’d love to have a couple of my own one day just like her. I’ll name them all ‘Florabel’, too, even the boys. Fuck yeah, I will. What a kick-ass name._  
  
He turned his head back to the hot chick. She spoke to him—no words, just a soothing cadence that made him feel sleepy and loved. He beamed at her and tried to tell her how fucking beautiful she was and how awesome he felt, but the only word he could get out of his sloppy mouth as he wilted with sleep was an exuberant-but-groggy, “Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude!”


	6. Pictures From Life's Other Side

__

_February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“What do you mean ‘it took him’?”  
  
“It went right for him, Bobby. The only reason I got dragged in at all was because I was trying to hold him. It focused completely on him, and the spirit controlling that thing—that wind elemental or whatever the hell it was—it recognized him. The spirit chanted something. I couldn’t tell what language he was using, but it sounded Eastern European. I think I can remember some of the words. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.” Ellen and Bobby helped him to sit up. “We have to get back there. Let’s get going.”  
  
“Well hold on just a minute,” Ellen said. “We don’t know what we’re up against. You said yourself you didn’t know what it was. There are a lot of things it could be, and we need to narrow down the list of suspects. We have to be smart about this.” She looked from Sam to Bobby. “And we need to get them to stop construction. We can’t have people working there while that thing is loose.”  
  
Sam rose to his feet and got his balance while Ellen kept a protective hand on his elbow. “I need to find, Dean. We have to—” Another thought struck him. “Shit, he was hurt, Bobby. He needed medical attention even before we ever left to investigate that site. I tried to get him to stay in the car, but he came in, anyway. Typical.”  
  
“Hurt?”  
  
Sam tapped his shoulder in demonstration, his face a cobbling of fury and guilt. “His shoulder, remember? From where I shot him. He was afraid to have it checked. Didn’t want to have to report it. But it’d gotten infected, probably a lot worse than I even know. He wouldn’t let me near it, but you know how Dean is.”  
  
“Yeah, kid, I do.” Bobby sighed. “But let’s get this square. You didn’t shoot him. Meg did, so you need to stop with the hand-wringing over who did what.”  
  
Agitated, Sam barreled on without pause. “And what if he woke up somewhere in the same condition I was in? He’ll have an infected gunshot wound with absolutely no idea who he is or what happened to him. We have to find him. Now. I can’t sit around anymore.”  
  
“We’re not gonna just sit around. That thing you saw, I saw it, too. I’ve already been there and back. I heard some of the words. I’ve seen it, and believe me, we do not want to go in there again unless we know exactly what we’re up against. There was a lot of raw energy coming from that thing. No telling what it can do besides just blowin’ wind at you.” Bobby adjusted his cap and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “First things first. We need to get a hotel room and you need to sit your ass down and tell us everything you know, everything you and Dean did since you first got here. We can’t help him if we don’t know the whole story.”

* *

 _February 17, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Florabel sat in the rocking chair, one lazy leg dangling over the arm, the other pushing languidly against the bed, rocking the chair back and forth while she played with a couple of marbles in her hand. She rolled them around each finger and then clacked them together a few times.  
  
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “You been sleeping since forever, Pally.” She clacked the marbles harder. Nothing. She sat up and leaned against the bed, sticking her face close to his.  
  
“Pally. Ohhhhhhh, Paaaaaaaaaally.” She watched his dreaming eyes rove beneath their lids. Spying a feather poking through his pillow, she tugged it out. Opportunity and mischief lit her face and she blew on the feather, making the downy strands diabolically fluffy. Brushing the feather on his chin got no response, so she tried his nose. His eyelashes twitched. Her eyebrow arched in response, and she crooked her tongue against her lip in deep concentration. She went in a second time and that attempt elicited a full-on nose-scrunch. Florabel giggle-snorted into her palm. Encouraged, she inserted the feather into his nostril, giving it a maniacal wiggle. She ducked as his right hand lurched up and batted at the offending probe.  
  
“Quit it, Sam.” The words came out thick and drowsy. Dean cracked a goopy eye when he heard the little girl’s puckish laugh.  
  
Florabel cocked her head to the side, the picture of innocence. She pressed a couple of marbles into her mouth, offering him a bright smile through her chipmunk cheeks. “Something wake you up, there, Pally?” she asked hollowly through the marbles.  
  
Dean gave her a groggy double-take. “Something or someone.” He closed his lids with a sleepy puff of indignation and bunched the blanket in his fist, cuddling it closer.  
  
Snickering, she climbed onto the bed, settling herself right next to him. Florabel poked him in the nose until he opened his eyes. “I ain’t never met anyone who sleeps so much as you.” She gave the feather an impish twirl with her fingers.  
  
Dean noticed the offensive implement of torture in her hand. “You fiend.”  
  
Florabel cackled and nodded, agreeing, dusting her nose with the feather while Dean adjusted a pillow behind him. “Who’s Sam?” she asked as she knocked the marbles together with her tongue.  
  
Dean scrubbed his face with his working hand and focused his gritty eyes. He let out a puzzled huff of air. “Who?”  
  
The little girl shrugged. “You said for _Sam_ to ‘quit it’ just now when you was still mostly asleep. Who’s he?”  
  
“S—Sam?” As he stumbled over the word, the room slipped away and he fell into the clutches of a series of swirling images. He saw a young boy curled asleep beside him. Next, he watched a dimpled teen doing calisthenics. Another image stuttered into focus; the same dark-haired boy, older now, tense and angry, tossed a shotgun into the trunk of a car. Colors ran together and one scene melted into another, until he found himself standing in a room engulfed in flames. The same young man… _Sam_ …screamed and struggled as Dean pulled the boy to safety. Dean’s eyes flew open as the ceiling exploded. He flinched and bucked in an instinctive bid to get away.  
  
“Pally, no!” Florabel gasped, spitting the marbles from her mouth and trying to push him back. “You’ll hurt yourself. Stay still, please!”  
  
Dean’s eyes ricocheted around the room, inspecting the ceiling for signs of fire. Recognizing his surroundings, he collapsed against the pillow, panting in dazed confusion. The vision had been so real. His body trembled with adrenaline, and he hissed as a hot, electric pulse rippled through his shoulder and arm. He palmed his face, trying to block out both the searing pain and the sudden impulse to leap up and run.  
  
“Shhhh, Pally.” The terrified child gulped and whimpered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ‘a woke you up. It’s okay. You’s gonna be okay.”  
  
Though they weren’t memories in the strictest sense, the images evoked raw emotion. They’d felt real, as real as the little girl and the dusty bedroom. They’d felt more like…he grappled with the concepts…more like an _accurate_ representation of reality. Or a more accurate representation of _his_ reality, perhaps. The dimpled boy— _Sam_ —had made the strongest impression on him. He was important. He was key. The compulsion to make contact had been so strong—to find Sam, to protect him. But no matter how hard he tried or from what angle he approached the images, the truth—the actual _memory_ —remained out of reach. His head hurt from the strain.  
  
“Dizzy,” he managed to say. “I just…” He scanned his surroundings knowing intuitively that he didn’t belong there. “I don’t know what’s happening. Everything is…all wrong.”  
  
“It’s okay, Pally. Things is gonna come back to ya. Don’t fret, now. Is Sam a friend of yours, maybe?”  
  
Dean tried to remember, but the imagery eluded him like a piece of paper in the wind. Every time he went to grasp hold of a thought or a memory, it sailed further away. He saw only the black storm, heard only the chaotic incantation he couldn’t get out of his head: _Én itt beidéz, Hala. A szél az Ördög!_  
  
“I don’t know who he is. But he’s someone important. I know that much.”  
  
“Well just don’t sit up so fast. You’ll pull your shoulder. I don’t want you to be hurt no more, Pally,” Florabel said. “Doctorin’ is fun, but you gotta git better so’s you ‘n me can play marbles!” She tapped the two glass beads together, trying to cheer him up. “I hope you don’t see Sam agin. He cain’t be very nice, if’n it makes you so unhappy to ‘member him. Don’t you give him another thought, Pally. Okay?”

* *

 _February 8, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“Dude, fuckin’ get off me.” Dean pushed Sam away with his good hand. “Personal space, geek-boy.”  
  
“Dean…” Sam watched his brother stifle a groan as he eased the watch off his wrist.  
  
“Sonofabitch,” Dean muttered, ignoring Sam. “What happened to ‘takes a licking and keeps on ticking’?” He shook the watch with a mournful whimper.  
  
“It’s not a Timex, Dean. I don’t think it was waterproof, sorry.”  
  
Sam tried to keep his tone light, but the demise of Dean’s wristwatch in the frigid waters of Lake Superior was just the tip of a very large iceberg of guilt. No matter how adamantly Dean insisted otherwise, Sam took full responsibility for all wounds, great and small, his brother had suffered under Meg’s reign of terror.  
  
“You’re buying me a new watch when this is over.” Dean fondled his watch one last time, heaved a tragic sigh, and tossed it into the backseat. The action forced an involuntary hiss of pain from him.  
  
“Your shoulder’s infected, Dean. You need to have it looked at.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Sexy. I’m not an idiot, all right? And just where should we go to have my _gunshot_ wound looked at, huh?” he asked. “I think I’ll pass on the mandatory police notification, thanks.”  
  
Sam sighed in exasperation, but he knew his brother was right. “Let me see it, Dean.” He reached for the bandage.  
  
“Dude, what the hell?” Dean flinched away. “I said I got it. Let’s stop at a pharmacy on the way back and pick up more antibiotic cream. I’ll take care of it. I’m not two years old, you know. I think I know how to take care of a simple flesh wound.”  
  
“Yeah, well you haven’t. And don’t think I can’t see how much pain you’re in. I’m not two years old, either, and I think I know the signs of a serious infection when I see them. We shouldn’t even working this case. We need to stop and deal with this first.”  
  
“The bad guys never sleep, Sammy. They’re more reliable than the Post Office. _Neither snow, nor rain, nor bum shoulder, nor gloom of night_ or however the hell the saying goes.”  
  
“Dean, let me help, man. This is my fault”  
  
“Dude, enough with the dewy-eyed, guilt trip, already. You had _nothing_ to do with this.” He reached across with his right hand and opened the door, bracing his wounded arm as he got out of the car. “C’mon, let’s go talk to this Matt guy.”  
  
Sam watched Dean battle with his balance, and all the exaggerated stretching and overblown yawning he was doing to try and hide it didn’t fool Sam for a minute.  
  
“Jesus, get the lead out, Sammy.” Dean peered at him through the window. Sam shook his head and got out of the car, boring holes into his brother all the way to the house.  
  
Reaching the door, Sam knocked. After waiting a good twenty seconds Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam shrugged and knocked again.  
  
“Sec!” someone called. “I’m gettin’ there, hang on.” There was a clatter, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “Goddamn, dumb-ass crutches!” At last the door opened, revealing a scruffy man of about thirty, balancing on one foot while trying to manhandle his crutches into place with little success.  
  
“Matt Crawford?” Sam asked.  
  
“Yeah, that’s me. What’s goin’ on?”  
  
“I’m Sam Ulrich, this is my partner Dean Hetfield. We’re from OSHA. We’d like to talk to you about the accident at the construction site.”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Right. You can come in and talk all you want, but it wasn’t no accident.” Matt backed up and pivoted. After stumbling again, he gave up on the crutches altogether and hopped the rest of the way to the recliner. “Freakin’ ass crutches. Y’gotta be a gymnast to use ‘em.” He sat and drew the footrest out, settling himself. “Say, if you guys want a beer there’s some in the kitchen,” he said. “And you can grab me one, too, yeah?”  
  
Dean quirked his cheek. “On it.”  
  
“Mr. Crawford, we read about what you told the reporter from the paper,” Sam said. “We’d like to get the story from you, if that’s all right.”  
  
“It’s ‘Matt’, and I ain’t gonna change my story. So if you want to ‘tidy’ the mess and make it look all pretty in your books, that’s up to you. I saw what I saw, and I ain’t changin’ my story.”  
  
Dean handed Matt a beer and offered one to Sam who declined. He set the extra down and tried to open the bottle with his ring but couldn’t get any leverage with his left hand. He attempted to cover it by opening it one-handed, but that didn’t work, either. Grabbing the bottle with a huff, Sam opened it for him. Dean shrugged and took a couple of nonchalant gulps. Sam’s lips thinned into a line of irritation and worry, but he said nothing. He turned to Matt.  
  
“We’re not trying to make you change your story. We just want to get a detailed account,” Sam said. “Can you tell us what you saw?”  
  
“Well, you read the papers. A damn ghost is what I saw.” Matt pulled on his beer. “It was the ugliest damn sonofabitch I ever did see, too. I was up on the scaffold, and suddenly there it was. Damn thing smiled this wide-ass smile and started chanting something crazy.”  
  
“Could you make out what it said?” Sam asked.  
  
“No, I couldn’t make out what it said. I ain’t taken a course in crazy-ass, ghost talk 101, yet. It’s on my bucket-list, though.” Dean turned to Sam and raised a lone eyebrow. “It was gibberish.” Matt went on. “But that’s when the wind started.”  
  
“Wind?” Sam asked.  
  
“Yeah, it was blowing all hell, west, and crooked. The ghost started blippin’ and flickerin’. An’ that’s when I noticed the other one.”  
  
“ _Another_ ghost?”  
  
“I guess. Hell I don’t really know for sure. It all happened so fast, and I was just a little preoccupied with, you know, not dyin’ at the time. It was either two ghosts or the same ghost skippin’ around or something. It’d be right next to me, then it’d show up on the other end of the scaffold. The chanting got really loud then. And the wind…? That’s when the scaffolding started to snap and buckle.” Matt took an emphatic glug from his bottle. “Have you ever seen the Tasmanian Devil cartoon?”  
  
“Hell yeah.” Dean grinned. “Taz can totally kick Daffy’s ass.” Sam cleared his throat in warning, but Dean just smirked and smacked his lips together. “So you were attacked by…the Tasmanian Devil?”  
  
“Cute. No, but it looked similar. It was this rotating, dark cyclone. Then, there were these crazy fingers of electricity running through the poles of the scaffold. ‘Zzip—zzip’…you know…like Frankenstein,” Matt said with a nod. “I knew I was in a shit storm then. I started to climb down, because I wanted to get the fuck away from that thing. I didn’t get far when a huge gust hit me and that was it—lights out. I didn’t even remember hitting the ground. I still don’t. Got most of my memories back, but I don’t have that one. Don’t want it, either.”  
  
“And you couldn’t remember anything at all when you woke up?” Sam asked.  
  
“Not my own name. Not my wife’s. Nothing. I couldn’t even remember how to talk when I first come to. Finally, things started coming in flashes, but it wasn’t until my brother came and showed me pictures of my high school football games that I remembered.” He took another long drink. “Fellas, OSHA shouldn’t be involved in this. You got things all wrong. It wasn’t anything Gerry or the other contractors did. We followed the safety procedures to the letter. It wasn’t a ‘work accident’. It was a freakin’ ghost, so you boys can just stick that in your OSHA pipes and smoke ‘em,” he said. “Sorry. But I ain’t takin’ it back.”  
  
“It’s all right, Matt. We just wanted to find out what you had seen and heard.” Sam turned to Dean who had disengaged from the conversation. He stood, rubbing his temples, fingers still clutching his beer. Sam noticed the fine sheen of sweat above his lip. “I think we have enough.” Sam plucked the beer from Dean’s hand, snapping his attention back. “We good here?”  
  
Dean pinched his eyes and blinked them wide open. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I think we have it covered.”  
  
“We’ll let you know if we need any more information. Thanks for your time, Matt.” Sam placed a firm hand on his brother’s arm, guiding him to the door.  
  
“One thing, though,” Matt called from his chair.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“I’ve never been more terrified in my life, you know. And it wasn’t just because of seeing a ‘ghost’. It meant to harm me. It whispered to me and I felt more hate and evil coming from that thing than I’ve ever felt before. It ain’t a joke. That thing wanted me dead. Don’t go out there. You could get killed.”  
  
“We’ll keep that in mind, Matt. Thanks again,” Sam said before shutting the door. The rain and wind hadn’t let up, and the wooden stairs were snotty-slick with rot. “Let me help you, Dean.”  
  
“I’m fine, dude. Take your damn hands off me. I think I can walk down four steps on my own.” As if on cue, the moment Sam removed his hand, Dean over-compensated and stumbled on a step.  
  
Sam reached out a steadying hand, giving his brother a triumphant bitchface as he helped him down the rest of the stairs. “How’s that working out for you?”  
  
Dean paused, obviously waiting for the agony in his shoulder to subside, before giving Sam a carefree grin. “I’m like a cat, Sammy. I always land on my feet.”  
  
Sam snorted. “That’s because I kept you from face-planting, Dean. Now, give me the keys.”  
  
“The hell I will.”  
  
“Dude, you always pull this shit. Now give me the keys unless you’re okay with passing out and crashing the damn car. I’m not joking, man. Keys or hospital. Your choice.”  
  
Dean sniffed haughtily and handed him the keys with an affected, casual smile. “Remind me to pick up your Midol while I’m at the pharmacy, Samantha,” he said as he walked to the car on shaky legs.

* *

 _February 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“You look mighty handsome. I ain’t never seen a boy as fine as you, Pally.” Florabel crossed her legs Indian-style on the bed and put a marble between her toes, squeezing it until it popped out in a spectacular arc toward the head of the bed. It bounced off the headboard and rolled back into Florabel’s waiting hand. She squealed with delight. “Look what I done, there, Pally.”  
  
“That’s amazing, Florabel,” he said as Emma wiped the last of the shaving cream from his face.  
  
“There you go.” Emma folded the rag. “All done. You sure you want to try and git up? We can bring your supper to you right here in bed.”  
  
Dean cupped his bandaged shoulder. It hurt, but he was fidgety and anxious to move. The four walls of the small room had closed in, day by day. Cabin fever had taken hold and Dean needed to move.  
  
“I think I’d like to give it a try. My shoulder feels a bit better today.”  
  
“Mama and Jeb made everything special, Pally. We even got butter for the cornbread tonight. Penny was a good cow and gave extra cream. She must ‘a known you was gittin’ up today.” She rocked back and forth and clapped the soles of her feet together like a seal.  
  
“Florabel, you skedaddle now. We’ll be out in a minute.” Emma scooted her daughter off the bed.  
  
“Mama, I want to stay here.”  
  
“No ma’am. You do as you’s told, Florabel. You mind me, now.” Emma left no room for argument.  
  
“You can sit next to me at dinner, Pally. I’ll save you the best seat.” She gathered her marbles and stuck them in her pocket. Emma saw her to the door, but the girl spun around, dawdling backwards. “See you soon!” She waved at him, beaming.  
  
Emma shut the door and shook her head. “She’s quite taken with you, Mr. Hetfield,” she said, blushing. “I hope she don’t trouble you too bad. She don’t have many friends. I cain’t let her go to school in case a black blizzard comes up. We ain’t got a car anymore to go fetch her, so she gets rambunctious from being penned in so much.”  
  
“It’s ‘Dean’, and I’m pretty taken with her, too. She’s a great kid. She’s been good company.”  
  
“She talks too much. She got that from her papa. Never did know a man to jabber so much as Red.” The spontaneous memory caught Emma off guard, and she looked away, her eyes wilting. When she turned back she was all business again. “All set?” She bent in, readying herself to get him out of bed.  
  
“I’m sorry about your husband. Florabel told me he passed away last year.”  
  
“It’s been a hard year.” She cleared her throat, brushing the conversation aside. “Like I said, she talks too much.” She gave him a weak smile and leaned in, gathering him up. “You ready?”  
  
“Ready.” His stomach lurched as he rose and he yawed into the young woman’s helpful embrace, hugging her arm like a pillar. Blinking furiously, he waited for the spots before his eyes to clear.  
  
Emma held him patiently, letting him cling to her. “You all right, Dean?”  
  
He breathed through the nausea as the room tilted and twisted. “I think so. I just need a minute.” He wondered if maybe he’d been overly ambitious thinking he could just get up and go on about his business.  
  
“Do you need to lie back down?” She smoothed a hand over his back. “We can try this agin later. They ain’t no hurry.”  
  
Dean’s eyes popped open. “No!” He was surprised by the anxiety in is voice, but he couldn’t bear another moment in bed without a break, at least. “No.” He kept his tone even. “I’m good to go. I just needed a sec.”  
  
She nodded and grabbed a shirt with her free hand. Shifting him in the bed, she helped him swing his feet over the side and then let him rest some more. “Your shirt was all tore up when we found you,” she said. “I have one of Red’s that I cut the sleeve off of. We’ll git that on you and then I made a sling that’ll support your arm. I washed your trousers, but I think they may be too loose. You need to fill out some, agin. I have a pair of Red’s overalls you can wear. You’s a little taller ‘n him, but I let the hems down. And even though it’s chilly, I ain’t gonna try and fight you into a union suit with your arm hurt. If’n you get cold, we’ll just git you a blanket.”  
  
“I’ll be fine, really.”  
  
Emma drew the shirt over his head and situated his arm through the large hole where the sleeve had been. The woman soon became lost in her work and said nothing more until she’d guided each of his legs into the overalls, leaving them bunched around his thighs.  
  
“I’m gonna have t’git you on your feet while I hitch these up.” She warned him. “I want you to lean on me, an’ if’n you feel like you’s gonna pass out, you tell me so an’ I’ll git you right back down.”  
  
“Okay,” he said miserably.  
  
It took three tries, but he made it up at last, gritting his teeth in abject humiliation. He gripped his throbbing arm as he sat down, too wiped and too mortified to say anything. Emma swung one of the bib suspenders over his good shoulder and hooked it, leaving the other to dangle.  
  
“We’ll let that one be. Let’s git you slung and your shoes on, an’ we’ll go have dinner. I dunno about you, but I surely worked up an appetite.”  
  
Dean studied her composed smile. “Why are you helping me?” he asked as she eased his arm into the sling.  
  
“What a question, Mr. Hetfield.”  
  
He watched her work, trying to understand her, trying to understand any of this. “It’s ‘Dean’. Why would you help someone you didn’t even know for all this time?”  
  
Emma shot him a glance and went back to work, adjusting the sling. She grabbed his boots and began working his feet into socks and shoes. Tying the laces with nimble fingers, she made eye contact. “If you come across me hurt and senseless in your barn, would you just leave me a-lyin’ there?”  
  
He blew out an incredulous breath. “No.”  
  
“Then why would you think we’d do something like that?” She paused and then shrugged. “You was hurt and you was here. There ain’t no ‘why’ beyond that. I wouldn’t no more leave a man in need of help than I would any other of God’s creatures.” She finished with the laces and rose. “You may not remember much about who you are or where you come from, but I gotta wonder with all them scars you earned, what awful things you seen that would make you think folks wouldn’t do you a kindness.” When he made no response, she shook her head and smiled. “C’mon Dean. You’s all ready for the feast.” She made a sweeping motion toward the door and offered her arm. “Shall we?”  
  
Once standing, she let him get his center before helping him shuffle to the door. “You’s doin’ real good, Dean.” She encouraged him.  
  
In the hallway Emma used the wall to brace herself as she took a good portion of his weight. When they turned the corner, Dean heard voices coming from a nearby room.  
  
“No no no, Slaid, you got it all wrong. I reckon if your brains was dynamite, there wouldn’t be enough to blow your nose,” said a male voice. “If’n you see a black blizzard and the dust is black, it come from Kansas. Everyone knows that. Black from Kansas, Red from Oklahoma and gray from Colorado or New Mexico. Y’can always tell where a storm come from by the color. An’ Kansas is dark black.”  
  
“Bah, Kansas is red,” a second strange voice insisted as Emma and Dean entered the large country kitchen.  
  
Florabel bustled around, setting the table while an older man stirred something in a large, cast iron kettle. A third man, thin and reedy, sat at the table. The little girl shrieked when she spotted Dean.  
  
“Pally! You made it. You look so smart in them fine clothes!” She ran to greet him as though she hadn’t seen him in ages. “We got stew and cornbread and butter! Jeb and Mama, they made sure the stew is good and thick. Do you like stew, Pally? It’s real good.”  
  
“I’m sure I’ll love it.” His legs wobbled and threatened to give way. “Um, where should I sit?”  
  
Florabel sensed his imbalance and scraped out a chair nearest the backdoor. “You sit right here, Pally. I’ll be right next to you if’n you need anything.” Emma helped him sit while Florabel danced in circles around them.  
  
Once sitting, the little girl made the introductions. “This is Old Jeb. I told you all about him. He sat with you a lot when you was bad off.”  
  
Jeb stretched out hand, giving the young man’s good arm a firm, friendly shake. “Mighty glad to see you up and about. Everyone was worried there for a day or two, but these two girls don’t give up easy.”  
  
“We surely don’t, thank you very much!” Florabel agreed with a self-assured nod.  
  
“I can see that,” Dean said. “I’m very grateful to everyone for helping me. I don’t know what to say.”  
  
“Don’t say nuttin’,” Jeb said. “Emeline here is the most neighborly woman I ever did meet. I should know. I owe her more’n you do.” Emma waved him off and started filling bowls.  
  
“Ms. Livingston is the best woman in the county,” Slaid said. Emma gave the farmhand an uncomfortable smile as she set a bowl down in front of him.  
  
“That’s Slaid.” Florabel gave Dean a knowing glance. “He’s the other farmhand I tol’ you about.”  
  
Dean looked Slaid over. It was no mystery why Florabel didn’t like him, monster or not, with his stained overalls and skeletal face, unkempt stubble growing all the way down his neck. Dean nodded coolly. “Hey.”  
  
“Devil Fighter rises from the dead, ya?” Slaid crumbled his cornbread like it was a clod of dirt and tossed it into his stew, spooning up a huge mouthful. “Good. Slaid won’t have to dig big, _big_ grave.” He took another loud, wolfish bite.  
  
Dean’s stomach flopped squeamishly as he watched Slaid take another obnoxious bite. “You always talk with your mouth open, dude?” Florabel smirked around her own mouthful, her blue eyes star-struck and brimming with admiration.  
  
Slaid licked a glob of gravy off his fingers and stared. “ _Dude_?”  
  
Jeb cleared his throat. “Emma says you don’t remember how you got here.” He set down his spoon. “You had some kind of card that said OSHA on it. What was it that we said it stood for, Em?”  
  
Emma filled her bowl and sat down. “I don’t recollect for sure. Something about safety and health.”  
  
“That’s right.” Jeb snapped his fingers and broke a piece of cornbread in half. “Occupational Safety and Health Administration. We was thinking you might work for the government.”  
  
Dean squirmed as they all focused on him. The words meant nothing. “I don’t remember.” He took an awkward bite of his stew. It was nothing more than meat and brown gravy, but it was warm and savory. He hadn’t realize how hungry he was until that first bite. “This is really good.”  
  
“Mama’s the best cook. She made good and sure no dust got in it. I don’t taste hardly any grit at all.” She buttered a piece of cornbread and handed it to him. “Put this in it, Pally. It makes it even better.”  
  
The meal progressed and Dean enjoyed both the food and the company. Emma’s stabilizing calm, Jeb’s easy laugh, not to mention, of course, Florabel’s enthusiasm for everything helped to keep his mind off his shoulder. He filled up quickly, though, and wondered if he overdid it with what he did eat. By the time supper was over, he was sweaty and lightheaded.  
  
Emma rose and cleared away the dishes. “You boys want some coffee?”  
  
Dean perked up at the word. “Yes, please.”  
  
Jeb rose, “Let me help you, Emma.” He placed a mug in front of Dean. “You remember if you take cream or not, Dean?”  
  
“I’m not sure.” He raised the mug of black coffee to his lips. The moment the hot, pleasantly bitter liquid passed his lips, he was transported elsewhere.  
  
He saw himself at a table with a white, ceramic mug in front of him. The longer he watched the scene the more his point of view shifted from observer to participant. He had no memory of the event, but he now watched through his own eyes. He looked down at the mug, felt its warmth in his cupped hand. He sat, chatting with the same dimpled man he’d seen earlier. Sam. The boy laughed at something and dug into a plate of eggs.  
  
Dean felt a comforting familiarity with Sam so close to him, and he knew with an instinctive certainty that if he could make physical contact, if he could just touch the kid, he’d remember everything he’d forgotten. Dean reached out—so close—almost there, but his hand suddenly slammed against an invisible barrier inches away from Sam. The image dissolved, and the Livingston’s kitchen materialized around him. Emma captured his wayward hand that had hit her square in the breast when he’d groped out to touch Sam. Without a word, she calmly redirected it while trying to keep him from falling. Jeb stood next to her, lending a hand.  
  
“Pally!” Florabel fought her way through the web of arms holding him. “It’s okay, Pally. Don’t fret, now. We gotcha.”  
  
Dean searched the faces of the people hovering over him. “What’s happening?” He blinked, disoriented and dizzy.  
  
“Devil Fighter faints like a girl.” Slaid laughed. “Ya. We’ll have to keep the salts handy for this one.”  
  
“You shut yer mouth, Slaid.” Florabel’s cheeks flamed red with anger. “He cain’t help it. He gits spells sometimes. Don’t you make fun. It ain’t nice.”  
  
“Careful, little one.” He licked his lips, grinning. “Or the big bad wolf will get you.” He screwed his spiny, long-nailed fingers into claws and growled. The little girl squealed in terror and latched onto Dean like a limpet, burying her face in his chest.  
  
“Careful Florabel!” Emma snatched the child back. “You’ll hurt him.”  
  
“Slaid, you damn idiot.” Jeb’s nostrils flared as he roared at the man. “Why you gotta do that? You ain’t right, you know that? I swear, somebody done stole your rudder at some point. And you wonder how she could git crazy notions about you.” He shook his head in disgust. “You got no sense how to git along with people, and I cain’t even excuse you on account of your foreign upbringing. I reckon where you come from, they’d think you was an ass, too.”  
  
“Language, Jeb,” Emma scolded, juggling both Dean and Florabel.  
  
Slaid blithely picked his teeth and chewed on a piece dislodged rabbit. “I was just funnin’ with the little one. She knows I don’t mean nothin’.” He backed away. “I best go. Don’t want to scare her. I’ll leave her to tend the _Ördög_ Fighter before he swoons again.”  
  
Dean’s eyes went wide. “What did you say?”  
  
Slaid grinned at him as he stepped around the table toward the backdoor. As he passed, he pretended to trip and slammed into Dean’s wounded shoulder, shoving it into the table. Dean gasped in shock and agony. Slaid bent in, close. “I said I’ll leave her to tend the _Ördög_ Fighter.”  
  
Jeb pulled Slaid off Dean and shoved him toward the door. “Out!”  
  
Slaid turned with an innocent shrug. “I’m sorry. I tripped.”  
  
“Don’t give me that, Slaid. I swear you’s so crooked you could swaller nails and spit corkscrews. Now, you git on out of here.” Jeb slammed the door on the man.  
  
The room dipped and pitched around Dean as he bobbed like a dinghy in a hurricane. He squinted at the hazy figures clutching him. He tried to listen to them, but he was deaf in his left ear and the right was ringing like a crystal goblet. The world around him turned stormy and black, just like the twisting vortex that had held him captive. And as he floated toward the kitchen floor, he suddenly remembered Slaid using the very word he’d heard over and over in the storm. _Ördög_. He didn’t know what it meant or why Slaid of all people would utter it, but as soon as he was conscious again, he was going to find out, one way or another.


	7. At My Window Sad And Lonely

__

_February 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Sore and wasted from lying in the same position for, well, for however long it had been, Dean shifted, or, at least he thought he did. He might have imagined it. He assumed it was morning, judging from the vague light filtering through the sheet that wafted over the window. He also assumed he’d been given more Laudanum, since it was raining starlight in the room again. His eyes refused to stay open, and he drifted beneath the pain and crystal light, searching for Sam. If he couldn’t find the answers he needed, if all he had was that aching void where his memories had been, he’d at least have the solace of Sam’s company.  
  
Dean sifted through the darkness. He didn’t see Sam, but he could feel him. Neither an impersonal memory nor a sterile image, he sensed Sam’s presence—Sam’s essence—in the same void Dean now found himself. He tried to call to him—knowing that if he could get to him him, if he could touch him—he’d take Dean away from the ‘wrongness’ of this room, the ‘wrongness’ of this farm. He just couldn’t quite reach…  
  
He opened his eyes to find Emma adjusting a dripping sheet over the window. The room was much brighter than it had been the last time he’d cracked his lids, and the Laudanum-induced, psychedelic light-show had fizzled. Shifting position to take pressure off his back, he blew out a frustrated sigh when his effort bought him a tingling ache in his shoulder. The pain wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it was enough to hold him back. And piss him off.  
  
“Dean…” Emma swept over to him and grabbed an extra pillow to help him to get comfortable.. “You’s awake. How do you feel?”  
  
“I’m okay.”  
  
“I know you’s tired of lyin’ here in pain. But you’s gittin’ better. It’s just gonna take a little bit longer.” She sat on the edge of the bed and helped him sit against the pillows. “I need to see to your shoulder and clean it up a little.” She reached for the bottle of Laudanum.  
  
“No, please.” He stopped her with his good hand. “I can’t take any more of that stuff. I’m gonna go crazy from lying here and sleeping all the time. I should be okay without it.”  
  
She put the bottle down. “All right, but you tell me if’n it gits to be too much. Promise?”  
  
“I promise.”  
  
Peeling back the bandage and poultice from his shoulder, she placed a hot cloth over the wound and laid her hand on Dean’s head when he hissed.  
  
“It’s fine.” He stifled a groan. “It’s just hot. I’m good.” The woman gave him a moment to master himself and then began cleaning the wound. Dean focused on the crack of light coming through shrouded window to take his mind off the pain. “What time is it?”  
  
“It’s a little after 9:00am. You been sleepin’ for about thirteen hours. We had to give you something for the pain when you first come to, ‘cause you was talkin’ out’a your head agin.”  
  
Gritty dust abraded his clenched teeth as he glanced around the room. “Where’s Florabel?” he asked, surprised she hadn’t been the one to poke him awake.  
  
Emma quirked a half-wry smile. “She’s been pesterin’ me all morning to let her come sit a spell with you. But she ain’t done no schoolwork in days. I set her to workin’ on some math and spelling. It’s too dangerous to be sending her to school. Kids is passin’ around measles to one another and they ain’t no way to git her home if’n a black blizzard comes.” She finished wiping the wound and gently examined it. “Well, no matter what happened last night, this is lookin’ so much better, Dean. You cain’t know just how far you come, but this is leaps ahead of where you was. All them angry red lines is gone, and they’s almost no more infection in the wound. Probably be able to take the packing out for good tomorrow, and we’ll just let it close on its own.”  
  
She was quiet for a moment then sighed. “I’m sorry about what Slaid said and done last night.”  
  
Slaid. Dean recalled their exchange and the _accidental_ bump into his shoulder. He remembered Slaid using one of the words in the incantation Dean had heard when he’d been held captive by the storm, and he flushed hot with the desire to find the sonofabitch and force him to confess what he knew about it. The bastard had done something—something that had gone terribly wrong—and Dean’d had wound up here as a result. He knew it in his gut.  
  
“Who the hell is that guy?” he asked. “Why would you let him treat Florabel like that? She was terrified of him.”  
  
Emma met his eye. “Florabel don’t like him. That’s a fact. And Slaid knows just what buttons to push to get her goat. But she also has a big imagination. I ain’t sayin’ that’s a bad thing, neither, but she cain’t let her imagination run so wild she accuses folks of being something they ain’t.” She bent Dean’s arm, stretching it in small increments. “Does that hurt too much?”  
  
“Not too bad. I can even move it now, a little.”  
  
“That’s good.” She continued to massage the limb. “Florabel sees fairies in the chicken coop.” She arched an eyebrow. “An’ one day she came and told me they was a gnome in my cucumber patch.” She put her hand in his. “Can you grip my hand at all?”  
  
Dean squeezed her hand until the pain and tingling stopped him. “There,” he said with a wince.  
  
“You got a strong grip, there. You’s doin’ real good. I bet you git most of your movement back without much fuss. Now that the swelling is going down in your shoulder, things is gonna move back to their rightful place agin. You wait an’ see.” She continued to work his muscles. “Florabel is scared ‘a Slaid, because he don’t have no sense and because he’s superstitious and has an accent. But I’m thinkin’ she ain’t really seen him turn into a monster.” She smiled and patted his hand lightly. “I know you cain’t remember things real good right now, but people don’t just change into monsters, Dean. That ain’t the way the world works. Don’t make her wrong for not likin’ him, but she has to learn how to git along with folks.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s just his accent. Something about him is not right.” Dean couldn’t articulate what he meant, but his instincts told him Slaid was dangerous.  
  
“Oh, he’s rude and dull, but he done a lot of good for us, too. An’ I owe his mama a debt I cain’t never repay.”  
  
“His mother?”  
  
“Slaid’s mama was midwife to me when Florabel and Hen—Henry was born.” She swallowed. “H—Henry was my son.”  
  
Dean met her tragic eyes. “Florabel told me about Henry. I’m so sorry.”  
  
Anguish feathered across her face. She nodded, pursed her thin lips and took a moment to shutter the view. She cleared her throat. “I had a hard time birthin’ Florabel.” She went on. “I was just nineteen years old, and it had been a long, hard labor. When she started comin’ out, she was turned all wrong. Slaid’s mama saved both our lives that night. It came real close for Florabel, in especial. She weren’t cryin’ or breathin’ an’ we almost had to give up, but Slaid’s mama held her, rattled her a minute and then put her mouth over Florabel’s and breathed life right into her.”  
  
The young woman began redressing Dean’s shoulder. “His mama died last year. Since then, Slaid’s been with us. I know he can be sore and un-neighborly, but I cain’t just turn him out, neither. That would be disrespectful to his mama who kept us both alive. An’ no matter what else he is or he ain’t, Slaid come through for me when Henry died. He watched over Florabel when I was too bad off with grief to do much those first few weeks. I ain’t never gonna forget that kindness, no matter what. Not that I think he should be rude to you or to Florabel. I gave him a stern talkin’ to for what he done, and he shouldn’t be botherin’ neither one of you. If’n he does, you just let me know and I’ll handle him.” She finished her work and gave Dean a pat. “Try not to worry about him.”  
  
Dean digested that for a moment. He couldn’t argue the point with her, at least not yet. “What does _Ördög_ mean? Slaid said it last night.”  
  
“I only know the gist of it,” Emma said. “Slaid is mighty superstitious. He thought you was brung here by some spirit or shade ‘cause of the way we first found all that damage and you sleepin’ in the middle of it all. Some of them boards weren’t even from our barn. Don’t know how they come to be here anymore than how you done.”  
  
“What kind of damage exactly?”  
  
“If I didn’t’ know better, I’d say it was a small twister or dust-devil that hit.” She laughed at the theory. “But I ain’t never seen anything like that _inside_ a barn before.”  
  
Dean tensed. “Was Slaid there?”  
  
“I don’t know where Slaid was that night. He never said he saw anything.”  
  
“And _Ördög_ means what?”  
  
She shrugged. “It’s Hungarian, like him. I think it means _devil_ or _demon_. He calls you _Devil Fighter_. But like I said, he’s mighty superstitious. I wouldn’t put no stock in it.”  
  
Dean said no more about Slaid. He’d have to investigate later. There was something going on, he knew it. Emma either couldn’t or wouldn’t see it. In any case, she was a dead end. He’d look into it as soon as he could get out of this bed.  
  
“Emma,” Dean asked the question uppermost in his mind. “I think I have a memory of some kind. It’s confusing. I don’t _exactly_ remember him, but I keep seeing a man. He has shaggy, dark brown hair. A tall guy, dimples—in his early twenties. Do you know anybody like that? His name might be Sam.”  
  
Emma considered the question. “I don’t know nobody like that. But you was callin’ for _Sam_ last night when you was in a bad way. I don’t know him, but I reckon you do. You just don’t remember him, yet. I lived in this town my whole life, an’ I ain’t never seen you before, Dean. I don’t think you’s from anywhere around here. Maybe Sam is someone you know from where you first come from. Once you remember that, they’s a good chance you’ll know where to find him.”  
  
“This is so damned frustrating.” Dean ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. “He’s important. I need to remember.”  
  
“Fevers do bad things to people, Dean. You’s gittin’ better every day. You’ll remember in your own time. Don’t fret.”

** 

 _February 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Dean barely remembered his own name, unable to think past the angry throbbing in his shoulder. Sitting on the lip of the tub, he tried to pull himself together before Sam busted down the door. Running a hand through his sweaty hair, he gathered enough energy to rise and remove his shirt. With a sigh, he stood and stifled a cry as he eased his left arm and shoulder out of the sleeve. Ribbons of red infection veined outward from the bandage.  
  
“Fuck.” He gingerly removed the gauze pad. “Mother fucker.” He hissed as he examined the bullet hole, now clotted and fat with pus. Galled tatters of dying flesh blackened the edges of the wound. Dark spots swam before his eyes, and he white-knuckled the sink to keep from hitting the floor. After steadying himself, he turned on the faucet and rinsed the wound with warm water. The sudden knock at the door, no matter how inevitable, sent jarring shocks of pain through his arm, and he staggered back in a daze. Recovering, he locked the door right as Sam went to open it. The younger hunter jiggled the lock.  
  
“Dean, man, open the door.”  
  
Dean’s clumsy fingers lost their grip on the tube of antibiotic cream, and it dropped to the floor. “Just give me a damn minute, Sam.” He forced a strong, steady voice. Measuring the daunting distance between him and the tube on the floor, he hoped to fuck he could get up once he’d retrieved the ointment.  
  
“Just let me in.”  
  
Dean felt the bitchface through the door as he picked up the tube and rebalanced himself. He needed to shut Sam up, he needed to sit, he needed to take a moment before he fell, but he stubbornly held on and squeezed a generous helping of antibiotic cream on the wound.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Sam, give it a rest.” He tore open a sterile bandage with his teeth and pressed it onto the wound, patting the adhesive tape to his hot, dry shoulder. His body shuddered with a suppressed moan. “You can’t possibly want to see my junk that bad.”  
  
“Not funny, Dean. Let me in. Let me help you, man.”  
  
“Sammy, I’ve been chokin’ the chicken for—what?—fourteen years, now, all by myself. Thanks for the offer, though. I think I got it covered.” He pulled his shirt on quickly, taking the pain all at once instead of piecemeal. Gripping his shoulder, he doubled over, trying to muffle his ragged, erratic breathing. “Perv!” he yelled just so that he could belt out _something_.  
  
“Goddamn it, Dean,” Sam said, giving the door one final thump of defeat.  
  
“I’m fine, Sam. I’m better today. It’s healing, I swear. I’ll be out in five.” Sinking onto the toilet seat, he wiped the sweat from his face with a trembling hand. He braced his right arm on the sink and rested his forehead against his balled fist. He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t better. But he sure as shit wasn’t going to let Sam wallow in guilt over it. Eyeing a bottle of ibuprofen, he fumbled with the cap and dry-swallowed four tablets, hoping they’d get him through the next few hours of interviews. It was going to be a long day.

* *

 _February 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
He was so done with this shit. It was past noon, and he couldn’t bear another minute in that bed. He kicked the covers off and sat up. It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t pretty, but he rose under his own steam, and even though it’d taken the next twenty minutes to dress himself, he’d done it. Well, most of it. He couldn’t clasp the overalls to save his life, and he gave up on the sling after buggering that, too.  
  
“Sonofabitch,” he said to the knotted mess. Cradling his arm, he headed out the door, straps and sling jumbled together and dragging behind him like a limp parachute.  
  
Once in the hallway, he followed the sound of voices coming from somewhere nearby. Wandering past the kitchen and through an old dining room, he found himself in a small, tidy parlor. Emma and Florabel knelt there, elbow-deep in a bucket of cream-colored paste, dipping thin strips of sheeting into the sludge. They glanced up as one when Dean cleared his throat.  
  
“Pally!” Florabel made to rush the young man, but Emma collared the child.  
  
“Hands, Florabel.”  
  
The little girl looked at her coated hands. “Rawr!” She displayed her gooey claws for Dean’s inspection, growling. “I’m a paste monster!”  
  
“Wipe.” Emma handed her daughter a wet cloth and toweled her own hands as she rose. “Dean.” She greeted him and then noticed the overall straps and sling dangling uselessly behind him. “Gracious. Let me help you.”  
  
“Sorry. I wasn’t able to…” He fumbled with the tangled mess.  
  
Emma couldn’t hold back a small chuckle. “Oh my, you are a sight, here. Let me see if I can…” She set to work, humming and tsking as she unraveled everything.  
  
 “I—I just needed to get out of that room.”  
  
“Of course you did. There we go.” She sorted everything out, hooking the strap and helping him into the sling. “Let’s git you sittin’ and you can rest a spell. You sit right here with us, and if’n you need anything or want to lie down, we’ll git you fixed up in no time.” Before Dean could reply, Florabel ran to him.  
  
“Pally!” Florabel leaned against his knee. “We’s gonna weather the windows so the dust stays out, an’ I git to work the paste!” Emma pulled the sheet away from the parlor’s large picture window, revealing Dean’s first view of the outside world. Shocked, he rose and went to the window, peering about in bewildered awe.  
  
That he suffered from memory problems was undeniable, but this—this was all wrong. This was other-worldly. Ashen dust gauzed the dips and rolls of the land as far as the eye could see. It rippled in endless dunes and divots, swelling to large drifts and then blowing away to reveal clumps of tortured grass lying flat. Battered tufts of vegetation clung to the unstable, naked earth as the wind ripped at roots, marauding the nearby dirt and spinning it into the bleak sky. This was not Dean’s world. It had never been his, he was absolutely sure of it.  
  
“Wind ain’t so bad today. Prolly gonna kick up agin, though.” Florabel stood by his side, sharing his view. “’Cause it’s the blow-season.”  
  
“What the hell happened here?” Dean took another horrified glance. Florabel shrugged.  
  
“Language, Mr. Hetfield.” Emma chided him and glanced outside. “Same thing that’s been happening for years now. Ain’t been no rain to speak of. Lots’a folks is givin’ up and movin’ to California.” She attached a pasted strip to the windowsill, pressing it into the cracks. “We ain’t gonna move, so we gotta just try and keep the dust out. It cain’t stay like this forever. Rain’s gonna come back one day.”  
  
“But all the plants is dyin’ of thirst, Pally. Old Jeb says if’n it gets much drier the bushes is gonna start to follow the dogs around to try an’ git a little sprinkle.”  
  
“Florabel, hush.”  
  
“Why, Mama? That’s what Old Jeb says. He would know.”  
  
Dean helped mold the sheeting to the highest corner when Emma strained to reach, but he continued to watch the dust shift and blow as he worked. He felt more alien and out of place than ever. This world was barren, twisted and hungry, and it made him feel rootless and lonely. He thought of the boy in his visions, of Sam, and he wondered how they’d come to be separated if they were as close as he believed them to be, and how he’d ended up in this wasteland.

* *

 _Febrary 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“It’s true, about half my crew is just farm-boys doing temp work. We’re a small community, here, and we don’t do all that much construction, so when we get a good-sized job like this, we gotta hire who we can. These boys are hard workers, though. They know their way around the trade, and they ain’t prissy college dummies, neither.” Gerry leveled a dubious glance at the boys. Sam shifted in his seat. “I can promise you, we’re doing everything by the book.”  
  
“Well, we’d like to take a look around, just the same. Can you give us a tour?” Dean asked, unconsciously rubbing his arm. “We’d like to inspect—”  
  
Without taking his eyes off his brother, Sam cut him off. “You know what, Gerry? Um, we’re probably okay for now. Why don’t you just tell us what’s been happening here.” Sam looked from his brother to the contractor and back again.  
  
Dean gave him a _WTF_?—look. “No, I think we should inspect the site, right Sam? Take a good, long walk around and make sure everything’s up to code?” Dean said with a nudging nod. Gerry watched the two, his head bobbing back and forth like a spectator at Wimbledon.  
  
Sam gave his brother a bitchy smile. “Um, no,” he said. “We should let Gerry tell us what’s been going on first. Then he can show _me_ around the place while you take care of that _thing_ you need to take care of.” He served a look right back at his brother’s shoulder.  
  
Dean shrugged. “I think everything is taken care of, Sam. Not sure what you mean.”  
  
Sam released a hiss of angry steam. “Gerry,” he turned to the confused but entertained contractor, “this land, who owns it? What kind of history does it have?”  
  
“Huh? History?” Gerry asked.  
  
“Well, we’d like to know for legal purposes, liability and all of that. And if there are any environmental issues going on, we’d like to know what the land’s been used for,” Sam said.  
  
“Well, the land’s owned by the airport over yonder.” He nodded toward the small airstrip that served the county. “But historically this used to be farmland. If I recollect right, this was Mad Dog’s place for the longest time.”  
  
“Mad Dog?” Dean asked. “Who’s that?”  
  
“Mad Dog? Mad Dog was our Doc for years and years, since the 50’s I reckon. Retired back in the 90’s. Sill volunteers at the clinic and helps Doc Haffner a day or two a month, though. Older than dirt and ready to cuss you out if you so much as look funny. Hell, more’n once Doc slapped me upside the head for doin’ stupid shit when I was growin’ up—like the time I broke my ankle while racin’ grocery carts when I was eleven years old.” Gerry chuckled at the memory. “Old Mad Dog smacked me first, then X-rayed me second. I think this was Doc’s land until it was sold to the airport.  
  
“Mad Dog sold most of the land decades ago, so only this small parcel where the house and barn once stood is left. An’ Mad Dog finally let it go to the airport. Doc’s got another farm down south a ways. Still works the land a little, too. Organic farmin’ or some such nonsense. But you don’t argue with Mad Dog, no sir, you don’t. Doc’s got a vicious bite.” He grinned. “But I’ll write down the address for you an’ you can go and see for yourself if Mad Dog knows more about what the land was used for. All I know for sure is that the land sat vacant for decades. Ain’t no toxic waste dump, though. I can attest to that. It was all just farmland. Any other questions about liability is gonna have to be directed to the Transportation Authority, ‘cause the airport is gonna have to answer legally.” He wrote down an address and handed the slip to Sam.  
  
“The house and barn. Do you know where they once stood?” Sam asked.  
  
Gerry nodded. “County records show the old farmhouse stood where the parking lot is gonna be once we’re done with the construction. The actual building just covers the land where some out-structures once was, the barn and some sheds. We found the old well shaft and done away with that early on.”  
  
Dean flinched as he resituated his left arm. “Do you know if anyone was buried on the land?”  
  
“What the hell kind ‘a question is that?”  
  
“We’re just trying to cover all bases here. Need to know if there are any other…holes or—air pockets,” Sam said.  
  
Dean rolled his eyes at him and mouthed the word _smooth_. Sam retorted with a silent _shut up_!  
  
Gerry chuckled. “You boys from OSHA or the Scooby-Doo mystery-club? I think you been takin’ Matt too seriously.” He laughed again. “Ain’t no one buried on the land that I know of. We ain’t dug no one up, that’s for sure. But again, you can ask Mad Dog any of those questions. Now, you want me to show you boys around or not?”  
  
“Yes,” Dean responded.  
  
“No,” Sam said at the exact same time.  
  
Gerry sat back and smirked as the two men continued to spar with their eyes. “You boys should watch some Dr. Phil. Do you both a world a’ good.”

* *

 _February 21, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Despite having used his arm more than he should have the day before, Dean woke feeling his best yet. The wound was even beginning to itch. That in itself was a whole new kind of torment, but one that Dean found to be far more tolerable than the bone-deep throb of infection. He’d even been able to get the sling on by himself, which also improved his overall mood.  
  
Pouring some water into the basin, he splashed his neck and face. When the refreshing water struck his parched skin, he hissed and gripped the cabinet as a mild vision hit him. He saw himself standing under a hot stream of water—a… _shower_. Massaging his temples as the vision faded, he lamented the fact that the Livingstons likely didn’t have one of those. He added showering to the short-list of reasons why he needed to remember his life.  
  
He peered into the mirror and wiped his face with a towel. Running his fingers through his limp hair, he fussed with the short bangs drooping onto his forehead. That was all wrong, too. Fighting the mess with one hand, he stopped short when Florabell released a tortured cry from a nearby room. He bolted out the door before he knew he’d moved.  
  
Turning the bend, he saw Emma holding her daughter and rubbing some kind of ointment on her. Dean recoiled as a rancid, feral stench hit his nostrils. Florabel shrieked again.  
  
“Florabel, you hold still and stop that fussin’. I’ll be done in a minute.” Emma persisted with her vigorous swipes.  
  
Slaid sat at the table drinking coffee and laughing. “No one will want to git close to the little one now. Even the monsters will stay away.” Slaid made a whooping sound and plugged his nose.  
  
“Slaid…” Emma issued a savage warning. “I ain’t gonna tell you agin.”  
  
“Ow, Mama, no!” Florabel loosed another ear-piercing yelp as Emma smeared the paste on her chest. “Mama!” Catching sight of Dean standing in the archway, her face crumbled with humiliation, and she buried her head in her mother’s neck. “Don’t smell me, Pally.” She gulped and hiccoughed. “Don’t smell me. I’m disgusting!”  
  
“Hey, what’s all this?” Dean forced his way through the effluvium and bent down, tugging on one of the little girl’s braids. When Florabel burrowed deeper into her mother’s neck, Dean looked at Emma.  
  
Emma sighed. “She gits a bad cough from the dust. The skunk oil and turpentine loosens the dirt and gits it up and out’a her lungs. She don’t like the smell.” She coaxed her daughter to stand, rubbing more ointment on her chest despite the child’s bitter protests.  
  
Dean pivoted to get a cleaner breath of air and wipe the water from his eyes, but the child’s wounded sobs drew him back. “Hey, don’t cry, Florabel. That skunk oil doesn’t fool me for a minute. I can still smell how pretty you are underneath it.” He thumbed her cheek. The little girl fought her tears as Emma applied another coat to Florabel’s throat.  
  
“I ain’t gonna smell nice for days now.” She snuffled.  
  
Dean thought a moment. “Well, you know, the dust is making me cough a lot, too. Now, I don’t remember things too well, it’s true, but I don’t think there’s as much dust where I come from. My lungs aren’t used to all this.” He coughed in demonstration. Steeling himself, he dipped two fingers into the ointment and rubbed it on his neck and chest. “There…” he said between swallows, “…we smell exactly alike now.” He cleared his throat and fought his gag-reflex. Taking shallow breaths, he gave her a nod and his best, winning smile.  
  
Emma sat back on her heels and shook her head in dumbfounded gratitude and admiration.  
  
The little girl giggled through her tears. “We both smell horrible,” she said, licking a tear off her lip.  
  
Slaid stood. “Slaid cain’t take the stink. Best go an’ help Jeb check traps.” He slammed the door behind him.  
  
Dean and Florabel looked at each other and grinned. He nodded to the spot vacated by Slaid and wiggled his eyebrows. “Well, see? There’s always a silver lining, right?” He held up his right hand. “High-five me.”  
  
“High-what?” Florabel asked, not understanding but laughing at his naughty expression.  
  
“High-five me. Here…slap my hand.” He waved it in the air above her. She gave his palm a gleeful slap. “All right! There you go.”  
  
“You’s a little strange, Pally,” she said. “Gittin’ all smelly and smackin’ five. I ain’t never done that before. You think they do that a lot where you come from?”  
  
“I—I guess they must,” he said, suddenly confused. He wondered where any of that had come from. Emma interrupted his thoughts.  
  
“I’m gonna git some eggs and grits cookin’. You think you’s ready to try some?” she asked, wiping the rest of the skunk grease from her hands.  
  
Dean nodded. “I’m starving, actually. I’ll try anything.”  
  
Grabbing his good hand, Florabel pulled him along. “Come on, Pally. While Mama fixes breakfast, you come an’ play marbles with me.”  
  
“Florabel, don’t you be forcin’ him to play with you. He still needs his rest.” Emma scolded the girl and tossed Dean an apologetic glance.  
  
“It’s fine.” He let Florabel lead him away. “I don’t know how to play marbles, though. You’ll have to show me.”  
  
She brought him into the parlor and pointed to a spot on the floor. “You sit right here, Pally. I’ll mark the circle.” She pinned a strand of yarn onto the large throw rug, creating a circle about three feet in diameter. Stealing a glance at her mother, busy in the kitchen, she turned to Dean, whispering. “My mama plays with me sometimes.”  
  
“Oh yeah? Is she a good player?”  
  
“She’s good at just about everything, Pally.” She stopped her work and thought for a moment, staring at the wall as though it held secrets. “Do you think my mama is pretty?”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh…a little random. Why would you ask something like that?” Florabel gave him an innocent smile.  
  
“Just wonderin’.” She continued setting up the game-circle. “I think she’s pretty. An’ my papa said she was the prettiest girl in Oklahoma.” She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked thoughtfully. “Of course, she’s old now. She’s something like twenty six or twenty seven years old! But for bein’ so old, I think she’s beautiful. Don’t you?”  
  
“Uh…” Dean felt nine kinds of awkward. “Yeah, she is.”  
  
Florabel nodded and shrugged as if it was a no-brainer. “She is. And you’s mighty handsome. I bet a nickel Mama thinks you’s handsome, too.” When Dean responded with a flat stare, she rocked back and forth on her knees. “You know,” she spelled it out, “so maybe you can kiss her and you won’t need to remember nothin’ else but our farm.”  
  
“Florabel…” Dean held up his hand. “I don’t think things work like that.” He searched her hopeful, expectant face. “Your mama is pretty, but she’s still real sad about your papa and Henry.”  
  
“I reckon that’s a fact.” The little girl nodded her head. “But she ain’t a-gonna git happy again until she ups and decides to think about somethin’ else. An’ she don’t say it, but she likes you. I can tell.”  
  
Dean shook his head, embarrassed. “How would you know that?”  
  
“Because her eyes smile when she looks at you. An’ that ain’t happened since before my Papa died,” she said. “Mama’s pretty, but she looks even prettier when her whole face smiles, not just her lips.”  
  
Not knowing what to say to that, Dean said nothing. The last thing he wanted to do was upset this family’s world. He owed them more than he could repay, but he was certain he didn’t belong there. The particulars of his past remained a mystery to him, but he knew there was something important he was supposed to be doing and that his arrival there had been unintentional. Once he remembered his life, he’d have to leave. He had no doubt about that.  
  
Turning a marble in his fingers, he cleared his throat. “Um, yeah…so how do you play this game?”  
  
Florabel watched him for a moment but then hunched her shoulders, taking the marble from him. “It’s real easy and fun, Pally.” She counted thirteen marbles and tossed them inside the circle. “Now we ain’t gonna play for keepsies, because you don’t got no marbles. But all you do is take this shooter.” She handed him a large marble. “And you knuckle down, like this.” She tucked her shooter between her thumb and forefinger and rested her hand on the ground, knuckles down. “And you try to knock as many mibs out’a the circle as you can.” She flicked her shooter and hit a few marbles but none of them made it beyond the border of the yarn circle. “Okay, I didn’t git any outside, so I lost my turn. Now you go. If’n you hit any outside, then you git to go agin. Keep your shooter in the circle, though!”  
  
Dean felt a profound sense of familiarity as he sized up the marbles and planned his move. He knuckled down and let the shooter go. The instant he heard the clack of marble against marble, he found himself far, far away. As the vision came into focus he found himself in a dimly lit room, bent over a large, green table. He heard the satisfying smack of cue on ball and the expected thump as it rolled into the pocket. He grinned up at Sam who returned the smile along with an eye roll of mock exasperation at Dean’s triumphant cackle.  
  
The sense of kinship and shared bond tugged at him, and Dean couldn’t help but reach out again. His need for contact was more instinctual than his need to eat or drink. Sam was right there holding that pool cue. He was so close. Dean fought against the small hands shaking him, struggled to escape the little fingers prying his eyes open, forcing him to wake. He didn’t want to go back. Sam was right fucking there, and if he was close enough to touch, he was close enough to remember. He was so close. Dean groaned in protest as the vision melted away and the Livingston’s parlor came into view.  
  
“Where’s Sam?” he asked, too drowsy and upended to understand where he was. It took a moment to recognize the worried faces hovering over him. He struggled to rise.  
  
“Dean,” the woman said. “Stay still a moment. Catch your breath before you try and git up.”  
  
“Ugh.” He moved his right arm from underneath him. Noticing marbles scattered everywhere, he remembered he’d been playing with Florabel. His fingers grazed the painful rug-burn on his forehead he’d gotten from falling. “Sonofa…” Still confused, he stopped short, noticing Florabel patting him. “Sammy?”  
  
“Don’t worry, Pally. It’s just me and Mama. We gotcha. Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. You don’t need Sam. You got us.” Florabel’s tearful eyes melted his heart.


	8. Fox And The Goose

__

_March 15, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Anemic sunlight filtered through the window, light and shadow mottling Dean’s face with the mirrored projection of the splotchy, fingerprinted glass. He watched the dust whip past the eaves, listened to the wind mourn in ceaseless, frigid wails. The shrill keening made him shiver more than the actual cold radiating from the window. He shrunk into his union suit, doing up the last few buttons with chilly fingers, grateful to Emma for giving him the long underwear.  
  
The days spent with the Livingstons had now spilled into weeks. Despite the calendar, though, spring had yet to touch this anorexic moonscape. It was hollow and vacant and cold—all the more reason to appreciate the union suit protecting his shrinking body from the harsh elements.  
  
The cold wasn’t the only thing that badgered him, however. Like the grains of dust that wormed their way through the tiniest chinks in the pasted window-seams to harrow the women he had grown attached to, Sam had infiltrated Dean’s subconscious. No matter how comforting the contact, be it a dream by night or a vision set off by some innocuous, mundane task by day, it frustrated Dean that he could not put the boy into the proper context of his life.  
  
He remembered nothing solid. Other than his visions, his past presented itself as a series of gut-feelings and impressions, the most persistent of which was the pointed sense of urgency and impending danger. His senses told him a ferocious storm was brewing, and without his memories those around him were at risk. And like a Russian thistle ripped from its anchor in the earth sent to tumble through the desolate dunes, Dean felt upended and rootlessly tossed wherever the wind decided.  
  
All attempts to remember his past ended in that black vortex. He could not circumvent those turbulent winds and sibilant whispers unless thrown there with no say in the matter, and, then, only as a spectator, allowed to watch confusing snippets, presumably from his past, play out like a movie. He’d questioned everyone about the day he’d arrived, but beyond finding him at the epicenter of what appeared to be an impossible dust devil _inside_ the barn, there was nothing else to relay. The Livingstons seemed to take it in stride as they had every other blow life had dealt them. At this point, they worked with what they had, and they moved on. They didn’t question, they adapted and made do. They certainly did not appear to be hiding anything. Except Slaid.  
  
Dean could smell the deception on him, stronger than skunk-oil and turpentine. Emma, however, had made it clear to Slaid, Florabel, and Dean alike that she would not tolerate domestic contention. _Things is bad enough without folks scrappin’ aginst each other! Y’all mind me, now!_ He had to agree with Florabel; when Emma used that tone, you felt damned compelled to do as she said.  
  
So, Dean did not challenge Slaid. He watched him, though—watched him go out daily to ‘check traps’ and, more often than not, come home with nothing, which was odd, since Jeb had no trouble filling the house with jackrabbits. Hell, the pests had become such a plague the county was planning large drives to round them up and do away with them. Florabel begged Emma to allow them to participate as soon as Dean’s shoulder permitted it. Yet, despite the inundation of rabbits, Slaid rarely brought any home from his hunting trips.  
  
Slaid kept his distance since Emma laid down her law. He’d eat his meals, sullen and silent, eyeing Dean and Florabel as they joked and laughed together, and then he’d leave. Dean tried to follow him once, but Emma stopped him from going out in the dust and wind.  
  
She’d been a task-mistress when it came to his shoulder, but the fact it had healed as well as it had was due in no small part to her vigilance. Dean tried as hard as he could to submit himself to her care without fussing. Every day the pins and needles in his arm and fingers lessened, and he was able to grip things again—not the way he could with his right, but he’d every reason to believe he’d have full use of the limb in a few weeks. Nevertheless, at Emma’s insistence, he’d been relegated to the indoors, with the exception of quick visits to the outhouse. In order to keep his sanity, he’d helped Florabel weather-strip every window in the house, both upstairs and down, the two of them often winding up with more paste on them than on the windows. After one such _paste'apalooza_ , as Dean called it, Emma insisted they wash their own clothes. That had somewhat put the kibosh on throwing paste-balls at each other.  
  
Florabel and Dean had become inseparable. In the evenings they’d hold marble-competitions that even Jeb and Emma would gather around to watch. Dean threw the games, of course, but he always made sure he challenged her.  
  
The little girl had shown him how to hunt for centipedes that she used for chickenfeed. When he’d had a particularly gruesome episode the first time he pried up the floorboards in search of centipedes, Florabel was right there to bring him back to reality. He’d had a horrifying vision of working with Sam to pry open an ancient coffin, revealing an old, desiccated corpse. When Florabel had asked what he’d seen, he said only that Sam had been helping him with something. But the vision had shaken him. After that, he started having nightmares involving Sam and him digging graves and fighting macabre creatures in the dark. The dreams frightened him, but, far more than that, they added to that sense of urgency needling him. Sam was the one constant in those dark dreams, but Dean’s inability to latch onto any tangible memory of the boy frustrated him. Each and every dream resulted in a failure to make contact.  
  
He buttoned his over-shirt and clasped the hooks on his overalls, giving the cold, swirling dust one more glance through the window. Florabel barreled in through the door, exploding with excitement.  
  
“Mama says you can come and meet Molly today, Pally. We gotta git a move on! All them centipedes is trying to crawl out’a the pail!” She somersaulted onto the bed and jumped up and down on her knees.  
  
Dean hung the wet sheet over the window, blocking out the dust and, for the time being, his growing concern. “Well, we better shake a leg, then, huh?” He held the door open for her as she pirouetted through it.  
  
After making sure to shut the screen door quietly behind him, Dean almost bumped into Florabel who had stopped on the porch. She stood, holding her finger high in the air.  
  
“C’mon, Pally. You gotta do this, too.” She nudged his thigh with her elbow. He quirked an eyebrow and held up his finger. “No no, silly. You have to suck it first, so’s you can feel the wind.”  
  
“I already feel the wind. It’s everywhere,” he said, turning to avoid getting a face-full of dust.  
  
“Pally, it’s important. You have to do this every morning. Watch me, now.” She wiped off her finger and plunged it into her mouth, taking it out once it was slick and stringy with spit. “See? Now you.”  
  
Dean licked his finger and held it up. “What exactly are we trying to do?”  
  
The little girl shrugged. “You just have to do it. It’s what papas are supposed to do.” She gave him sidelong glance.  
  
Dean’s finger drooped and he slipped into his pocket. “I’m not a papa,” he said, forcing a casual smile.  
  
“No.” She shrugged. “Not yet you ain’t.” She picked up the pail and tossed her braid behind her. “C’mon. Molly really wants to meet you.”  
  
Cold wind corkscrewed about them, kicking grit into their mouths and eyes as they made their way along the path. Reaching the chicken-coop, the barn blocked most of the wind, but Dean shivered nonetheless. “Man, it’s freakin’ cold out here. Doesn’t it ever get warm?”  
  
“It does, Pally. It gits so hot in the summer you cain’t think straight. Just you wait ‘n see.” She clapped her hands as they approached the coop. “There! There she is! That’s Molly. Do you see her, Pally?” She pointed and squealed as the red-feathered chicken broke away from her brood and waddled toward the child. “Ain’t she purty?”  
  
Dean opened the gate as Florabel ran to greet her friend. “She sure is.”  
  
“Molly is the best. Me ‘n her have been friends since she was a chick. We’s bosom buddies. Just like me an’ Lizzy Crawford. You ain’t met her yet, Pally, but she’s real nice. She’s so purty y’cain’t help but like her, but she ain’t the kind to be mean if’n you ain’t as purty as her. She was my best friend until…” She grinned and set down her pail, looking at Dean as though he shone. “…Until you come. You’s my best friend, now.” She picked up the docile chicken. “Come see her, Pally. She won’t peck atcha.”  
  
“She’s real pretty.” Dean squatted until he was eye-level with the girl and the bird. “She’s the brightest, prettiest chicken in the whole yard.”  
  
“She is.” Florabel brushed her cheek across the bird’s red feathers. She set the chicken down. “She loves to eat centipedes, too.” Plucking a squiggling centipede from her pail, she flicked it in the bird’s direction. Molly made a gobbling dash for it, rousing the interest and appetites of the rest of the brood. A wild cacophony of clucking filled the small yard as the other chickens scurried after their bright red sister.  
  
“Here, Pally.” Florabel handed him the pail. “You just tip it and let the critters fall. The chickens won’t let none of them git away.” Dean did as instructed and they watched the chickens sprint after their breakfast. “Now, while they’s distracted we gotta git the eggs.” Ducking into the coop and rooting around a moment, she held up an egg in triumph. “See?” She handed it to Dean.  
  
After setting it in the pail, Dean turned, hearing footsteps approaching from somewhere behind them.  
  
“Well if it isn’t Dean and the little Doodlebug.” Jeb greeted them as he ambled over. Slaid followed a few paces behind.  
  
“Mornin’ Old Jeb!” Florabel said as a large wall of dust slammed into them.  
  
“Wind sure is kickin’ up a fuss,” Jeb said. “So, Emeline finally sprung yuh, did she?”  
  
Dean gripped the old man’s hand with a good-natured smile and gave a nod to Slaid, albeit a stiff one. He’d play nice. He’d try, anyway. “Yeah,” he said. “The shoulder feels pretty good. Being able to get out and move makes it feel even better. The wind is a bitch, though.”  
  
“Welcome to _No Man’s Land_ , son.” Jeb laughed. “Say, if’n you feel fit enough, might want to git you an’ Slaid here to come take a look at the barn. I got the door hung so’s to keep the dust away from Penny, but they’s still a lot of work needin’ doin’ to make it right on the inside agin.” He turned to Slaid. “You reckon me, you and Dean can start workin’ on that?”  
  
Slaid pivoted toward Dean and hurked a sinus full of snot, swishing it around his mouth a moment before spitting. The snot-wad hit the dust and balled into a large, gritty glob at Dean’s feet. “Devil Fighter broke it. I reckon Devil Fighter can fix it without Slaid.”  
  
“Jehoshaphat, Slaid you ought never to pass up a chance to shut yer yap. You know that, boy?” Jeb looked the man up and down and snorted.  
  
“I’ll help collect the eggs.” Slaid nodded toward Florabel. “Isn’t that right, little one? You ‘n me will stay here and play with the chicks, ya?”  
  
Florabel instinctively moved behind Dean. Dean held the pail away from Slaid as he reached for it, but remained cool. “Naw, man, it’s okay,” he said, bending down with his stronger arm and picking Florabel up. The child clung to him like a frightened spider monkey, each limb braiding around his body in a terror-fueled hug, shaking as she clutched him. “Florabel’s coming with us.” Coaxing her head from where she’d burrowed into his neck, he spoke to her. “Then you ‘n me can get the eggs afterwards, that sound good, ‘Bel? Besides, you still need to teach me the right way of collecting them, huh?” Refusing to speak or budge her eyes from the ground, Florabel plunged back toward the shelter of his neck and nodded. Dean bounced her on his hip and turned to the old farmer. “Okay, Jeb, lead the way.”  
  
Dean carried Florabel from the chicken-coop and locked the gate behind him, his senses on high alert. That she didn’t like Slaid was a given, but this reaction went beyond dislike. Drawing slow circles on her back to assure her, he whispered in her ear. “You’re okay, sweetheart. Pally’s got you. I ain’t gonna let anything bad happen to you.”

**

Another bitter gust ripped through the barnyard as Slaid watched Dean and Florabel round the corner and disappear. Rage and hatred blew through him, fiercer than any shrieking wind.  
  
His daily offerings had gained him no power over the wind-demon. With no control over the Hala, he had no control over the women. They had, in fact, pulled further away from him, focusing their friendship and affection on the stranger who’d rode the Hala into their world. Each passing day saw the bond between them deepen. Something had gone wrong, a misspoken word, perhaps, or a mistake during the summoning ritual. Whatever it was, the Devil Fighter should not have come. He didn’t belong there.  
  
And he was dangerous. Slaid could feel it. He’d kept his distance out of fear, watching and waiting, trying to figure out his next move without arousing suspicion or concern. Despite the _Ördög_ Fighter’s noticeable weight loss since arriving, Slaid knew he was no match for Dean in a physical confrontation. Something would have to be done soon. The women’s love for the newcomer had all but rendered Slaid invisible. He decided to use that to his advantage.  
  
He watched the chickens fight the wind, striving to remain upright as each gust assaulted their plump bodies. Slaid considered the jackrabbit offerings he’d made. The warmth of their blood had taken the edge off his personal need, but none of them had pleased the Hala. He pondered what offering might appease the demon and bend the women’s affection toward him. Perhaps only an offering of great value to the little one and her mother would persuade the wind-demon. Slaid smiled at the thought.  
  
Another surge of dust sent Molly scrabbling as she tumbled across the small yard. Slaid twined his fingers in the chicken wire, smiling as he watched the pretty bird struggle.

* *

 _February 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Dean’s head throbbed and his stomach quivered. Pity he was too tired, too cold, too sore to remember the fun part of his bender. He reached up to rub his temple, stopping short when pain erupted in his shoulder. The shockwave moved down his arm and into his fingertips, forcing a guttural growl from him. Shivering, he opened his eyes, thoughts too puerile, too slow to understand where he was at first. Definitely not a hangover.  
  
“Th’fuck, Sam?” he said, straddling that liminal cusp between sleep and waking. He heard no answer except the soft plunk of slushy raindrops on the roof of the Impala. _Okay, the Impala. One mystery solved!_ Prying his forehead off the cold window, he sluggishly pushed himself into an upright position.  
  
“Fuck!” He cupped his shoulder and moaned. “Sammy?”  
  
Letting gravity do most of the work, he lolled his head toward the driver’s seat. No Sam—nothing but the reflection of the rain hitting the windshield. Sleep tempted and seduced him as he vacantly watched phantom raindrops trickle down the vinyl seat, but he had to stay awake, right? He had to stay awake because Sam had said… _uhmm_ …had promised… _uhhhh_. Sam had stopped somewhere to do—to check— _crap_. He couldn’t remember a damn thing.  
  
“Sammy…” When no answer came, concern and worry for his brother superseded his stupor and pain, and remaining conscious became a high priority. He shook his head, clearing it, sifting through his spotty memory of recent events.  
  
They’d been talking to… _fuck_ … _names are overrated_ …the contractor dude. They’d gotten a lot of information about the construction site, but Gerry… _that was his name!_...didn’t know shit about the obvious haunting going on there. Other than supplying the name and address of the past owner, the dude had been useless. After that, Dean’d spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening arguing with Sam.  
  
Back at the motel, Sam had pitched a hissy fit over Dean’s infected bullet wound. After enduring half a dozen bitchfaces and several threats to hogtie him, drug him, or otherwise incapacitate him against his will, Dean’d caved, agreeing to head to the Roadhouse to get some rest and stronger meds. That had placated Sam enough to agree to investigate the construction site on their way out of town. _Fuck_. He must have fallen asleep on the way there. _Jesus Christ_.  
  
He blinked his eyes several times, trying to get them to stay open. Squinting to focus, Dean noticed a receipt taped to the dash with a blue banana sticker. God, Sam and his bananas. What a girl. Dean snatched the note with his working hand and brought it close enough to read the pussy’s flowery handwriting.  
  
 _You’re running a fever. STAY!!!! BRB. –S_  
  
“Like hell, Sammy.” He wadded the receipt and tossed it into the backseat. Grabbing a water bottle, he gulped half of it and made ready to go find his brother.  
  
It took a few failed attempts to open the door before he realized it was locked. Pulling up the knob, he irritably pushed the door open so fast he nearly spilled onto the wet gravel. He flung his right hand out and grasped the door, saving his fall and prying himself up. Blinking dumbly, he stood wobbling for balance before setting out in search of Sam. He cradled his arm and did the zombie-shuffle toward the building, getting halfway before remembering he hadn’t brought the salt-gun. Patting himself, he verified his Colt was tucked into his waistband and loaded with iron bullets. After an exhausting walk, he entered the building, slipping through the tarp-covered doorway.  
  
He saw no movement; although, it was too dark to be sure of anything. Patting his pockets for a flashlight, he realized he’d left that behind as well. Fucking fever was making him stupid. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t hold both the light and the gun, anyway.  
  
“Sammy…”  
  
The name fell flat, and the entire world suddenly tilted to the right. Swaying with the roll, Dean staggered into an unfinished wall. His left side exploded in pain, burning like jet fuel into his neck and scalp and down into his arm and fingers.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
His stomach roiled, and he vomited the half-bottle of water all over his boots. Maybe the ghost-thing could wait a night or two, after all. He wanted to find Sam so he could admit defeat and let his brother help him back to the car. He didn’t feel well, and Ellen’s place sounded damn good at this point.  
  
“Sammy!”  
  
He worked his way deeper into the structure, gripping the wall for balance. Worry ate at him. “Sam!” He shouted his brother’s name one more time before remembering it was the 21st Century and cell phones were a nifty perk of the new millennium.  
  
“Fuck me.” He fumbled, unable to get his cell phone from his pocket while holding his gun. He was too tired to think, and he really, really wanted to talk to Sam, so he let the gun drop with a thud. Pulling out his cell phone, he cleared his throat to hide any trace of fever and pain. Sam answered on the first ring.  
  
Sam lit into him before Dean could say a single word. “Goddamn it, Dean. I just got back at the Impala. Come back. The place is empty. At least there’s no activity tonight. I looked around for an hour, man. It’s quiet.” Dean heard Sam’s angry feet stomping on gravel.  
  
“Oh.” He leaned against some sheetrock, trying to remember what he was doing. “Okay, Sammy,” he said with vague, childlike obedience. He turned around and lurched into another wall, ricocheting off it. “Ow! There’re fuckin’ walls everywhere, Sammy.”  
  
“Hang on, Dean.” More stomping crunches, coming faster now. “I’m coming to you. Don’t move, damn it.”  
  
“I won’, Sammy. Imma stay righ’ here. M’in a big building-thing.” He described his surroundings as he roved aimlessly through the structure. “An’ here’s ‘nother damn wall.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that, Dean.” Sam stomped some more. “Just—just stay where you are.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘kay. I’ll stay righ’ here. Won’ move,” he promised as he wandered about. “S’really col’, Sammy.”  
  
Sam sighed. “That’s because you have a fever. We’re going to the Roadhouse and we’re gonna get you fixed up.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, dude, m’not delirious. I mean, it’s _cold_.” His breath smoked out in a puffy cloud. “Don’ think I’m ‘lone. Did y’see where I pu’ m’gun?” he asked, his voice slurred but untroubled.  
  
He shuffled around searching for his discarded weapon. Rounding an unfinished hallway into to the large room he’d first entered, he spied the Colt on the floor.  
  
“’Kay, n’mind here it is. Foun’ it Sammy. S’cool.” Pivoting away from the wall like a toddler, he tottered forward, nearly falling into the arms of a skeletally thin ghost. Dean stared at it, his brain failing to process the danger.  
  
He waved his hand and phone through the apparition and jerked back in pain. “Awww Crap!” He dropped the frosted cell phone in surprise and hissed at the rimy residue on his hand. “That fuckin’ hur’s, dude.”  
  
He heard Sam stomp into the building. “Dean!”  
  
“In here, Sammy,” Dean yelled, wheeling on the ghost, focusing his languid, dopy eyes on the thing. The spectral image trembled and shuddered a few times before stabilizing. It sized Dean up. “What’re you lookin’ at?” Dean asked, returning the judgy once-over.  
  
The ghost growled deep in its throat and raised its hands, electricity pulsing and zipping up and down its fingers. It passed arcs of light back and forth between its hands, like a man pulling taffy. The apparition’s eyes gleamed as Sam loped into the room, aiming the salt-gun.  
  
It turned its palms toward Dean. “I’ve waited a long time, _Ördög_ Fighter.”  
  
“Dean, _down_!” Sam strode forward, eyes intent and lethal, finger twitching on the trigger.  
  
Before Dean could respond, the spirit fired the first shot, blasting him with energy that sent him flying into Sam. Both brothers careered into the wall-studding several feet away.  
  
Laughing, the ghost flickered and jolted toward them as a ferocious wind started to howl.

* *

 _March 15, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Black dirt swirled around the trio as they entered the barn and shut the door to block the worst of the wind. The smell of cow dung lingered in the dusty air; though, Dean also detected the faint odor of decay. Perhaps a small animal had taken shelter somewhere in the barn and never found its way out. He didn’t give it another thought, however.  
  
The little girl shuddering in his arms took his full attention. Setting Florabel on the ground, he crouched and placed his hands on her shoulders. She never took her eyes off the ground.  
  
“Hey, Florabel, you okay, sweetheart?” She nodded, studying her shoes. Dean tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You don’t look okay, what’s goin’ on, kiddo?” Florabel’s eyes darted from Jeb to Dean. She shrugged. “Come on, you can tell us.”  
  
“She always gits like that when Slaid comes too close,” Jeb said. “She don’t like him much a’tall. He’s mean enough to steal a coin off a dead man’s eye, I’ll grant y’that.” He laughed and pet Florabel’s head. “But, she thinks he done turned into a monster once. Ain’t that right, dolly?”  
  
“He did, Old Jeb. Exceptin’ you and mama don’t believe me. He changed into growlin’, fearsome monster. He just don’t growl so bad when you ‘n Mama is there.” She leaned into Dean for safety. “It was awful, Pally.” She snuffled, laying her head on his shoulder as he drew her in.  
  
Jeb chuckled. “Did he change into a monster before or after you spotted them dragon eggs next to Molly?”  
  
Florabel spun around, facing the old man. “Them dragon eggs was just pretend. I know they ain’t for real. But Slaid is. I seen him. He just don’t change unless we’s alone.” Her eyes smoked with defiance.  
  
Dean didn’t know what to think. Her fear appeared to be genuine. She was telling the truth—her truth—but he also remembered his conversation with Emma. Right or wrong, overactive imagination or not, Slaid terrified her. And Dean would protect her with everything he had. The farmhand would have to go through him to get to her.  
  
“Okay, Jellybean,” Jeb said, still petting her. “We ain’t a-gonna make you fight no monsters today. And remember, I got me a gun right in my bunk. If’n any monster comes, well, either me or Dean will shoot it for ya. Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. Now, why don’t we take a look at the barn and see what needs fixin’? Your mama will be obliged if we could git it back the way it was. She’s got enough to fret about.”  
  
“Come on, Florabel.” Dean rubbed her back and patted it. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen to you while Jeb and I are watchin’ out for you. I won’t let any monster get to you, hear me?” he said. “Now why don’t you and Jeb show me what happened here.”  
  
The little girl nodded and brightened, grabbing his hand. “I’ll show you where I found you, Pally. It was just me that day. I thought you was a no account rail-rider!” She guided him past Penny’s stall and into the open area of the barn.  
  
Even in the pale light, Dean saw the extensive damage. Split beams and hay bales lay strewn about in a large debris field. A side-room had lost an entire wall and the loft had all but fallen.  
  
He blew out a troubled breath. “Jesus.”  
  
“I picked up most of the gear and hay that got spilled, but the whole of the loft is in danger of collapse. A couple of them columns ain’t nothin’ but flinders now, and they’s another support-column fixin’ to fall, see?” Jeb pointed as they picked their way through the detritus. “I also stacked all the new wood we found in this corner. Might be able to make some use of it. Dunno how in the hell it all come here.”  
  
“Oh man,” Dean said. “This is gonna take a lot of work to fix.”  
  
“That’s a fact.” Jeb glanced around, nodding. “But I reckon ain’t no man ever drowned in his own sweat. We’ll git it done.” He inspected the worst of the columns and scratched his head. “It don’t make no sense, though. Storm damage is s’posed to come from outside-in, not inside-out. I surely do wish you could remember what happened that night. It’d make a tale I’d be mighty interested in hearin’.”  
  
“Me too.” Dean laid a hand on the splintered wood, and it suddenly felt like the ground gave way beneath him. With no warning other than the vaguest sensation of falling, his surroundings melted and morphed into something else.  
  
When his vision cleared he was no longer in the barn. He stood in some kind of unfinished building, dark, wet and cold. Very cold. Looking up, he saw himself and Slaid standing face to face. He gasped as he watched himself wave his hand right through the farmhand’s body as though he wasn’t there.  
  
 _That fuckin’ hur’s, dude_ , he heard himself say and watched his counterpart rub some frost off his hand.  
  
The scene shifted and he now viewed things from a first-person’s perspective, but he still had no true memory of the events. Just the same, the searing throbs radiating from his shoulder sure as hell felt real. He heard himself moan in excruciating pain.  
  
At first, he also heard Florabel’s earnest voice calling to him from far away, but her cries soon faded as the confrontation with Slaid progressed.  
  
The eerie, pale light emanating from Slaid flickered and shifted, giving him an otherworldly, two-dimensional quality—surreal, yet radiating and all too palpable sense of malice and danger. The sound of Sam’s lumbering feet on boards came from somewhere behind him.  
  
 _In here, Sammy._ His counterpart called as he continued his staring contest with Slaid.  
  
Dean tried to turn and face Sam, to reach for him, but he had no control of the action. He was nothing more than an observer, a passenger in his own body. The image of monster-Slaid winked in and out of existence a few times.  
  
 _What’re you lookin’ at?_ The other Dean raised a lone eyebrow at Slaid.  
  
A wicked smile tickled the corners of Slaid’s lips as the farmhand raised his hands and yo-yo’ed strands of electricity back and forth between them.  
  
 _It’s been a long time,_ Ördög _Fighter_. Slaid released a monstrous growl.  
  
 _Dean, down!_ Sam’s voice commanded him. Despite his wish to obey, Dean’s shaking body responded a second too late.  
  
With a flick of Slaid’s electric hand, Dean sailed backwards, crashing into something hard with a sickening crack of agony. Crumpling in on himself like hot cellophane, Dean gripped his shoulder.  
  
“You’s okay, Pally!”  
  
Dean heard a familiar voice in the distance. Exhausted from pain and fear, he sought out the voice, clinging to it, wanting nothing more than to get away from this vision.  
  
“Ain’t nothing gonna gitcha here.”  
  
He felt a small, warm hand on his cheek and he leaned into it, anchoring himself as the voice led him back home.  
  
“Me an’ Jeb, we’s right here with you. Don’t you fret, now. Open your eyes, Pally.”  
  
Battling his eyelids, he opened them, focusing on Florabel. This world may not be where he belonged, but it was more familiar and comforting than the one offered in his visions. He flailed and grappled, trying to find something solid and assuring to hold onto. The little girl in front of him twisted her fingers into his shirt, offering purchase. He touched her sunny braid. The phantom pain in his shoulder dissipated as his breathing returned to normal.  
  
He looked from Florabel to Jeb, relieved to be back. “Wh’happened?”  
  
“You had a bad spell, Pally. Didja see Sam agin?” She stroked his sweaty forehead.  
  
He hissed, remembering the vision. Slaid. He’d seen him—or something that looked like him. It looked like a… “Yes…well, no,” he said. “I think Sam was there somewhere, but I couldn’t get to him. I saw something else, though.”  
  
“What? What didja see?” Florabel asked.  
  
Dean’s mouth worked soundlessly as he glanced around in a panic, raising himself on shaky elbows.  
  
“It’s okay, son, you’s safe. It weren’t real. You was here with us the whole time.” Jeb helped the younger man sit up.  
  
“What was it, Pally?”  
  
“A monster.” Dean rubbed his head in confusion. “I—I think I saw a monster.”

* *

 _March 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
With the house now dormant and long asleep, Slaid slipped down the ladder leading into the root cellar and readied the altar.  
  
The Livingstons had made a big fuss over Dean that day, taking special care of their guest who’d, once again, fainted like a woman. They’d forced Slaid to do for himself while the woman and little one pampered the Devil Fighter. He quivered with rage at the thought of either one of them touching the man. And of course, Florabel had flounced around the entire day, taking charge where a child shouldn’t, telling him to _Git yer own supper, now. Mama and me’s got work to do! Pally ain’t feelin’ good today._ The little one should be taking orders from _him_ , doing what _he_ told her to do—not the other way around. More than that, he wanted her to _want_ to do his bidding.  
  
He’d been patient and obedient. He’d put up with their orders, suffered their wiles and endured them flaunting their bodies around him, driving him mad with the need to possess and discipline them—to punish and tame them to his liking. He needed the Hala’s power. He’d done everything expected of him to earn the wind-demon’s grace. Now it was the Hala’s turn. If this didn’t work, he’d have to find another tactic to force the women to obey him. At least he’d try this offering, hoping it would please the Hala better than the jackrabbits had.  
  
Slaid removed his clothing and stroked his cock a few times, lustful grunts and obscenities spewing from his mouth. Rock-hard with anticipation, Slaid lit the candles and set the herbs smoldering in their bowls. All was ready. Bending down, he collected his clucking offering and placed it on the altar. He caressed the bird and cooed to it.  
  
“What a beautiful thing.” He stroked his dick and then the bird. “Such a pretty blood-red.” He held it close to his chest, tucking it under his wing and fondling its head. “Florabel loves you so.”  
  
He gripped its neck and twisted it with a furious snap. Its final plaintive squawk sent blood coursing to his groin and he came, untouched, as the lantern flared to the ceiling. A wind ripped through the small, enclosed cellar, causing Slaid to drop the dead chicken back onto the altar. A surge of energy whipped through him, and he stood dumbfounded, staring at his hands as tendrils of electric light riffled across his skin. A heady power pulsed within him.  
  
The Hala had accepted his offering.


	9. Worried Man Blues

__

_March 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
His hand slithered under his pillow, groping for something that wasn’t there. Cracking a bleary, crusty eyelid, he searched the empty space, wondering what it was his sleepy subconscious expected to find. He coughed and worked the crunchy dust from his eyes and nose, giving both the pillow and the nothing under it another once-over. Concentrating as hard as he could, he willed the memory to resurface, but it stubbornly eluded him.  
  
“C’mon, c’mon!” The more he roused the quicker the moment receded. When it had evaporated altogether, he slammed the pillow down. He pivoted and leaned against the headboard, stewing. He didn’t know what he’d been hunting for under there. Something. Something important. He heaved a discouraged sigh and drew his legs up, hugging them with one hand while worrying a tuft of his growing bangs with the other. He rocked back and forth, but the motion served only to remind him of the constant push and pull between his unreachable past and his confusing present. Clenching his jaw, he ground away at the gritty dust, a constant nuisance between his teeth.  
  
Slaid. The presence of Slaid in his vision made no sense to him. He’d not seen anyone from the present in one of his wonky memories until now. Emma had said she’d never seen Dean before he showed up in the barn. But Slaid obviously had. Or had he? The farmhand had frightened Florabel, and he annoyed the hell out of Dean. Had Dean simply plunked him into the past, ascribing to him the role of villain in order to fill in some gap or apparent blank in his past? Or, despite Slaid’s improbable presence, had he actually been lurking in some shell of a building, somewhere, and attacked Dean and Sam? Were his visions meaningless, nothing more than a symptom of a brain broken by wound and fever, or were his past and present bound together by Slaid? And was Slaid, therefore, a danger to people in both worlds?  
  
“Fuck.” Dean fidgeted with his hair and ran his laced fingers over his head, trying to sort through everything.  
  
Leaning against the headboard, he stretched, his spine cracking and popping like twisted bubble-wrap. He wondered if dust had somehow wormed its way into his joints, chafing him from within. Dean pressed the palm of his hand to his jaw and popped it, then his fingers. Like his joints, his past and present ground past each other like tectonic plates with only dust as lubricant.  
  
He found no answers sitting there, trapped between mortar and pestle, so he kicked the covers off and bolted out of bed. As he buttoned his union suit, Dean inspected the gunshot wound, now no more than a purplish-red divot. He had to wonder if Slaid had anything to do with that as well. Dean wouldn’t put it past him. He needed to investigate.  
  
Passing through the empty kitchen, Dean heard Emma singing to herself in the parlor. He’d come to recognize this as one of her morning rituals while she dusted, and the longer he stayed in the house, the more comfort he took from it. Emma’s soft, lilting voice brought a soothing clarity to him.

_Ida! Sweet as apple cider._

_Sweeter than all I know,_

_Come out! In the silv'ry moonlight…_

  
It was another tether, albeit a pleasant one, tugging at him. The desire to go to her and help fill the morning dust-buckets, to enjoy her company and share her space as they worked to control the dust for another day tempted him. The more pressing issue won out, however. Without saying a word, he ducked out the backdoor and into some of the worst winds he’d experienced yet.  
  
Wild gusts hissed and spat brown dust everywhere and he spun this way and that, unable to avoid getting a face-full of stinging grit. Squinting, he tucked his head into his bullet wound, trying to take a clean breath. Once recovered, he peered through his balled hands, binocular style, in order to keep the dust away from his lids. Three separate dust devils weaved themselves into knots between the house and the barn. With less than a few hundred feet of visibility, the landscape melted into a blank canvas of brown haze not far beyond the barn. He coughed up some dirty phlegm and jogged to the bunkhouse.  
  
When knocking brought no answer, he rubbed the film of dust off the window and peered into the room. He saw two rows of cots against the walls but no sign of Slaid or Jeb. Furtively glancing around, he opened the door and entered, dust swirling around him like blowing snow in a blizzard. He coughed again and rubbed the dust from his watery eyes before he ventured further into the room.  
  
Two inhabited bunks sat at the far end. A framed picture of a much younger Jeb and a dowdy woman, both dressed in wedding attire, sat atop the nightstand of one of the bunks. Dean picked up another frame on the stand, a portrait of a young man in a WWI soldier’s uniform. The boy shared Jeb’s quirked eyebrow. Jeb never mentioned having a son, and Dean doubted he still did.  
  
“Jeb…dude.” Dean sighed with both respect and sadness. It astounded him how the people he’d met still laughed and smiled the way they did, day after day, in the face of such stupefying, environmental catastrophe and immiseration. He set the photo down, whispering his fingertips across the image and turned to Slaid’s bunk.  
  
Slaid’s plain cot sat opposite Jeb’s. Only a small oil lamp, a deck of cards, and an old newspaper dressed his nightstand. Dean opened the top drawer, finding equally sparse contents—a comb, an old, flattened toothbrush, and a small shaving kit. He snorted at that. Why keep those items? It’s not like Slaid ever used them.  
  
He noticed a few marbles rolling around the drawer. Dean gathered and held them against his palm, wondering if they belonged to Florabel. The idea that Slaid had perhaps taken something from her infuriated him. With no more proof other than his gut feeling, though, he put the items back. No sense in jumping into the deep-end over three marbles. Not yet, anyway. He opened the second drawer to find a few articles of clothing, an extra union suit, some socks and two shirts.  
  
“Crap.”  
  
He moved down the rows of cots and nightstands, opening drawers to make sure they were empty. The only thing out of the ordinary was a window-box with some plants growing in it.  
  
Dean stood, considering it, trying to figure out why two bachelors would be tending houseplants. He inspected the various herbs and pinched their leaves without knowing why. Smelling the rub on his fingers, he named each of the plants, Wolfsbane and Lobelia, with Bindweed crawling up the window-frame, entangling itself in the empty curtain rod. He doubted Emma had planted the box; no need for a woman’s touch in a bunkhouse.  
  
He studied the rest of the room. It was simple and unadorned. Perhaps he had it all wrong. What types of items would a monster keep? Would it plant flowers in a window-box?  
  
Deep in thought, Dean jumped when he heard Florabel’s distressed cries coming from outside. In an instant he found himself running through the barnyard, leaving plumes of rising dust in his wake.  
  
The little girl’s braids sailed behind her as she fought the wind. Another dust devil whirled through the yard, but she scarcely noticed. She continued to call for something, heedless and frantic as she ran here and there, searching.  
  
“Florabel! What is it?” Dean used his hand to shield his eyes from the blowing earth, making it hard to see her expression.  
  
“I cain’t find Molly! She ain’t in her yard, Pally,” Florabel wailed. “She ain’t with the rest of her sisters. I gotta find her! I don’t know where she could’a run off to. The gate was closed.” The child ran off, calling the bird’s name. Dean caught up with her in a few steps.  
  
“Hang on, Bel.” He scooped her up and ran to the barn. Once inside he set her down. “Stay here. Let me go check. I don’t want you in that wind. Stay with Penny.”  
  
“But Pally…!”  
  
“No buts…you mind me, now,” he said, taking a page from Emma’s book. It worked. The little girl stopped cold and slumped in shame. “Hey,” Dean bent down, mussing her hair and tugging on a braid, “I just want you safe, Bel. I’ll be right back. I promise.”  
  
He ran from the barn and toward the chicken-coop. His first attempt to open the gate gave him a powerful shock. Examining the fence, he watched blue sparks spider-crawling through the thin chicken-wire.  
  
“Jesus.” He pulled his shirt over his hand and opened the gate.  
  
The birds huddled together in their pen, using each other to stay upright in the wind. He walked through the clutch, picking up each chicken, one by one. Molly wasn’t there. He’d last seen her yesterday as he closed and locked the gate, heading to the barn with Jeb and Florabel. Slaid had remained behind. Suspicion percolated, his brain making the obvious leaps to arrive at the most likely explanation. Bile churned in his stomach. He ran behind the barn, checking to see if, perhaps, the bird had somehow wandered back there. He found nothing, and at this point he expected no different. Running back inside the barn, he found Florabel snuffling as she stroked Penny’s nose. The cow’s huge, liquid eyes watched the girl as it munched its hay in sympathy.  
  
“Did you find her, Pally?” she asked, her tear-streaked face alive with hope. He shook his head and bent down to the girl as her wet, broken sobs filled the barn.  
  
“Come on, Bel, we have to go back to the house. It’s too windy out here. I’ll keep looking, but you need to get inside. The weather’s not right.”  
  
She fell into his arms. “I don’t know how she could’a gotten loose, Pally. It don’t make no sense. She would never leave me for no reason. We was best friends.”  
  
Dean didn’t doubt it. Even if he’d left the gate open, Molly wouldn’t have been the only chicken to wander out. No, this was no accident. He clenched his jaw, fury rising.  
  
“I know you were.” He kissed her hair. “Let’s go to the house and see if Old Jeb is there. Maybe he saw her, and if not, me and him can go look.” He took off his over-shirt and covered her nose and mouth with it. Picking her up, he jogged toward the house. By the time they arrived in the kitchen, they were both choking, coated in a thick coat of gray-brown dust. Dean set Florabel down and noticed Slaid and Jeb eating a breakfast of eggs and corn mush.  
  
“My God!” Emma gasped, seeing Florabel’s face smeared with muddy tears. “What happened? Are you two all right?”  
  
Dean barely heard her. He strode over to Slaid and grabbed fistfuls of shirt and overalls, whirling him around and slamming him against the wall.  
  
“Did you do it?” Dean searched the farmhands face with lethal eyes and slammed him a second time. Surprised, Emma and Jeb sprung forward, working to separate them. Dean shrugged them off. “Did you do it?”  
  
A blasting gust of wind shook the house. Slaid’s clammy hands gripped Dean’s forearms, struggling to break free. Dean smelled the sharp, pungent tang of Slaid’s sweat and slammed him a third time.  
  
“Whoa there, son!” Jeb held his palm out, talking to Dean like he would a spooked thoroughbred, his voice steady and calm. “What’s all this fuss, now?”  
  
“Dean, let him go.” Emma wedged her body between the two men.  
  
His attention remained wholly fixed on Slaid, white knuckles wrenched in the farmhand’s shirt. “Molly’s gone. You were right there yesterday when we left. I know I shut the gate. What did you do with her?”  
  
Slaid’s lip curled with feigned amusement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shifted, trying to buy more wiggle-room. “Git your hands off me, _Ördög_ Fighter.” Dean shoved him again. Slaid grunted and looked at Emma. “Git him off me. You see how dangerous he is, now, ya?”  
  
“Dean, let him go.” Emma pushed against Dean’s chest, forcing distance between the two.  
  
“Come on, Dean.” Jeb turned his back on Slaid and whispered in Dean’s ear, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It ain’t so smart to corner something meaner’n you, son. Y’don’t want to git Slaid riled, now. Safest to just keep your distance until you know for sure he done something you can prove to Emma.” Jeb addressed the room. “Let’s just all calm down. Life is short ‘n full-o-blisters. Ain’t no call to make it worse. C’mon son, let this ol’ boy go, now.” He gave Dean’s shoulder a casual pat. “C’mon Dean.”  
  
Hearing Florabel whimper from across the room, Dean heaved a guttural growl, releasing Slaid with a final shove as he pushed himself away from the grinning farmhand.  
  
Slaid coughed in a ragged breath. “I don’t know what happened to the pretty bird.” He smoothed his overalls and shirt. “But instead of blaming people who done nothing wrong, I’ll go look.” He turned to Florabel. “I’ll help the little one find the pretty bird. Florabel, come.” He snapped his fingers, a triumphant gleam in his eye.  
  
“No.” Florabel backed away, frightened and uncertain.  
  
Slaid snapped his fingers again, as though he’d expected a much different outcome the first time. “Come to me now, little one.”  
  
“No.” Florabel ran to Dean and hid behind him. “I ain’t goin’ outside. Pally says it’s too windy.”  
  
Incensed, Slaid’s mouth worked soundlessly for a minute. He stood there, gaping, his hands balling into fists. Instinctively, Dean pounced again, growling, but Jeb held him back. Slaid moved away, his shoulders dropping.  
  
He recovered his bravado, making his way to the door. “Slaid will go alone, then. You can thank me when I bring the pretty bird home.” The screen door slammed behind him.  
  
Those remaining stood, rooted in place. Only the swish of dust grains spraying the windows and Florabel’s hitching snuffles broke the stunned silence.  
  
Emma shifted, pulling Florabel out from behind Dean. “Florabel, you and Jeb eat your breakfast.” Her voice sounded quiet and hollow in the tense room. “Dean, can I have a word with you in private?”  
  
“Mama, don’t you tell Pally to go.” Florabel clung to her mother.  
  
“Ain’t no one goin’ nowhere, child. Stop being dramatic. I just want to have a word. Now, you sit there and mind me. I mean it, Florabel.” Emma guided her to the table.  
  
“But Mama…” A hitching sob cut short Florabel’s high-pitched, emphatic protest.  
  
Jeb patted her back. “It’s okay, Miss Flibbertigibbet.” He nodded at Emma, indicating that he had the child. “You’n me is gonna sit and eat our breakfast.” When the girl made to object, he pressed a finger to her lips. “Now, Florabel you know just as plain as me that kickin’ up your heels ain’t gonna git you nowheres unless you’s a mule. Now let’s eat, doll. Let the grownups talk.” He winked at Emma giving her the all-clear to proceed.  
  
The young woman nodded her thanks and then beckoned Dean to follow her. She led him through the front room and onto the veranda. Intense wind worked Emma’s dress, wrapping it around her thin body like a wind-torn flag around a pole. Seeing her reach out a hand to protect her eyes, Dean moved over, placing himself between her and the wind, shielding her as best he could.  
  
“You want to explain to me what just happened, Mr. Hetfield?”  
  
Dean sighed. “Molly’s gone. Slaid was the last one at the chicken-coop yesterday.” As he spoke, he realized the accusation sounded flimsy at best. “I know I shut the gate, Em. And even if I didn’t—even if I had left the gate open—more’n just Molly would’ve gotten out. Slaid took her.”  
  
“Why would Slaid take Molly? It don’t make no sense, Dean. You cain’t be accusin’ him of things just because you don’t like him.”  
  
“Slaid ain’t what you think.” Dean ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I know it all sounds crazy, but I think I know more about Slaid than you do.”  
  
“What?” Emma rubbed her hands together, worrying them. “What do you know about Slaid?”  
  
“Well, for one that he’s a raging asshat.” Dean tugged the hair at the back of his head and dropped his arms with a defeated sigh.  
  
Emma faltered a moment, went to say something, then stopped—gave Dean a baffled look and then faltered again, unsure what she’d heard maybe or trying to figure out if ‘asshat’ was a cuss word or not.  
  
“Language, Mr. Hetfield.” The reprimand lacked her usual confidence.  
  
Dean’s shoulders dropped and he sighed. “Emma, I owe my life to both you and Florabel. I’d never do anything to hurt either of you, you know that, right?”  
  
“Of course I do.”  
  
“You’re gonna think I’m sillier than Florabel with ideas about fairies in the chicken-coop, but sometimes I see what I think are memories during those spells I get. And I saw Slaid in one of them.” He watched Emma’s face, expecting the worst.  
  
Her demeanor softened, though, and she guided him to the porch swing and sat down with him. “What did you see, Dean?”  
  
He shook his head. “It was all jumbled. I don’t know for certain. I was in a large, unfinished building, and he was there.”  
  
Emma paused. “We ain’t had any new buildings put up around here in a long time. Ain’t no money to build with. Are you sure it was Slaid you seen?”  
  
He shrunk into himself. Dean knew if he told her everything she’d never believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.” He rubbed his temples. “I saw him do things that don’t make sense.”  
  
“Dean,” she said the name tenderly, “you was so bad off when we found you. There ain’t no tellin’ what happened that night, but Slaid—he’s been with us the whole while. Every day. Eatin’ breakfast and just bein’ his ungrateful, cantankerous self.” She grinned at him. “He ain’t been to another town where they’s building things. The most he done is go to town to play cards. He ain’t been gone for more’n a few hours at a time. I ain’t tryin’ to shut you off. I’m just tryin’ to be realistic. What did you see him do?”  
  
The young man shook his head and shrugged. “It don’t matter.” He scuffed his boot along the dusty porch, swinging absently. “You’re probably right. It was probably just dreams I saw.” His back twitched as he leaned his elbows on his knees, studying the dust on the floor. “Nothin’ is making any sense. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know how I came here. I don’t know shit.”  
  
Emma flinched but didn’t chide him. She placed a gentle hand on his back. “It’s okay, Dean. I cain’t imagine how hard this is for you. I’m sorry we couldn’t git your fever under control quicker. Maybe none of this’d be happenin’ to you now if’n you hadn’t suffered so much. Your brain got too hot. I’m sorry. I cain’t tell you how sorry, because just like you’d never do me no harm, I’d never do you none, neither. And I feel bad that we couldn’t help you better when you needed it.”  
  
“Ain’t your fault,” he said. “I’d be dead if you hadn’t helped me in the first place.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Maybe what I saw was just a dream. I don’t know. It could be that whoever hurt me or tried to kill me looked like Slaid, or maybe I just imagined the whole thing and saw him because I don’t like him. I don’t trust him, Em. Maybe…” he slumped and closed his eyes, “maybe Sam isn’t even a real person.”  
  
Tears pricked behind his eyes at that. He couldn’t bear the thought that Sam might be nothing more than a trick of his mind. The dimpled boy was the one person beyond Florabel, Emma and Jeb who truly meant something to him. Sam’s presence haunted him, frustrating him like the itch of a phantom-limb. But if he could slip Slaid into his visions, fabricating memories that couldn’t have happened, what’s to say he wasn’t doing the same with Sam? Maybe none of his dreams meant anything beyond his fractured mind playing tricks on him. Dean bent forward and pinched some dust from the ground and rubbed it between his fingers.  
  
The young woman put her arm around him. “Well, me’n Florabel is real. We’s here, and we care about you, Dean. Even Old Jeb thinks the world a’you. I know it don’t mean much when your whole life has been stolen away, but we ain’t gonna turn our backs on you. You hear me?”  
  
Dean looked upon the wind-raped land before him. He could only see to the end of the yard before the landscape melted into a jaundiced-colored haze. He sighed and nodded. “Molly’s still missing, though. That ain’t my imagination, Em. Something or someone took her from a closed pen.”  
  
“I hear you, Dean.” Her eyes followed Dean’s, surveying the farm. “I don’t know how Molly got out. It ain’t even the first chicken we lost without no seeming reason. I think we lost one right about the time you come here. Though, at the time, they was a whole lot more to worry about than one lost chicken, and it certainly hadn’t been one Florabel was fond of. But that don’t mean Slaid done it.”  
  
“Don’t mean he didn’t.”  
  
“True enough, but we’ll make good an’ sure there ain’t no breaks or gaps in the chicken-wire before we go accusin’ anyone.” She smiled at him. “I know you’s a good man, Dean. I’m grateful that you care enough about Florabel ‘n me to try protect us like that. I do. But until I know for sure Slaid done it, I cain’t just toss him out nor even scold him. It wouldn’t be right. I cain’t imagine what Slaid would want with poor Molly. It ain’t like he can cook a lick, no how.” She giggled and nudged Dean, trying to lighten the mood.  
  
Dean digested everything. He’d found nothing incriminating in Slaid’s bunk. He’d nothing to go on other than his strange visions, and their reliability was suspect. He knew precious little for certain. His gut told him that something wasn’t right, but that wasn’t going to convince anyone else.  
  
“I’m sorry I lost my temper with Slaid.” He paused. “I still think he’s an asshat, though.” Returning her playful nudge, he gave her a cheeky smile. Emma chuckled. He sighed and traced the name ‘ _Sam_ ’ in the dust with his finger then brushed it away. “And I don’t think Slaid has your or Florabel’s best interest in mind.” He stopped playing in the dust and leaned back, meeting Emma’s eye. “You need to watch out for him, Em. No matter what I saw in my dream that is or ain’t real, you have to promise me you’ll stay clear of him.”  
  
The woman nodded in gentle agreement. “You too, Dean. Just keep your distance from him and things is gonna be fine. You’ll see.” She rose and offered her hand to him. “Come on, Dean. Let’s go on in and have some breakfast. This land is whittling you down too far. We’s gonna have to fatten you up a little.”  
  
Dean took her hand and rose. “Okay.”  
  
“Then once we’s done eatin’ I’m gonna douse both you and Florabel with skunk oil and turpentine so’s neither one of yuhs catch pneumonia.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him.  
  
“Ugh!” He hated the treatment as much as Florabel did. “That’s just plain mean spirited.” Emma snickered as she opened the door and went inside.  
  
She turned when Dean hesitated. “You coming, Dean?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be along in a minute.”  
  
“All right. Don’t stay out too long. Florabel will never forgive me if’n I let you run off now.” She shut the screen door and left him alone.  
  
Dean rested his hands on the railing of the porch and watched two separate dust devils war with each other in the distance. A similar war raged inside of him as his past and present collided and intertwined, playing a game of tug-of-war for his loyalty. Emma, Jeb and Florabel, _especially_ Florabel, twisted their hands around his heartstrings on one side, while Sam solely anchored the other, pulling equally as hard.  
  
No matter how improbable Slaid’s appearance in his vision had been, be it transference or outright fantasy, Dean knew Sam was real. In his core, he knew it. Perhaps Sam was out there somewhere right now, trying to find him, feeling as lost and as _halved_ as Dean. Maybe. It was a hopeful thought.  
  
As he stood there, palms straining against the railing of the porch, he watched one dust devil devour the other and serpentine out of sight, taking the Livingston’s farm and livelihood with it.

* *

 _February 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
A shocking blast tossed him through the air. As he crashed into Sam, their combined momentum propelled them into a wall with the crack of broken wood. Hitting the ground with an unrestrained grunt, Dean folded into a protective fetal position. Pain stole his breath and his thoughts, and he lay there undone until hands gripped him.  
  
Sam’s voice fell all around him, shouting words Dean couldn’t understand. He only had the wits to blink and breathe.  
  
“Wake up, Dean!”—some words that made sense, though Dean’d no idea why Sam said them.  
  
“M’awake, dude…quiddit…”  
  
“I got you!” Hands gripped him, raising him to his feet, but his legs buckled and he crumpled to the earth again.  
  
“Up, Dean! Move!” Sam’s voice commanded him. “Hold onto this.” He dragged Dean to his feet again and pushed him into the studding. Dean threaded a clumsy arm through the beams and held on with what remained of his strength.  
  
“Stay on your feet, Dean!” Sam made a wild dash for the salt gun he’d dropped when Dean crashed into him.  
  
The flickering specter continued to approach, bending his head this way and that, considering Dean.  
  
“Still the same, ya, Devil Fighter?” The thing raised its hand toward Dean. “Same. Like the day you first come here. And you still faint like a woman.” The spirit laughed and began to chant.  
  
 _“Én itt beidéz, Hala. A szél az_ _Ördög_!”  
  
The moment it completed the incantation, the ghost lurched to the side and disintegrated into smoky dust. Sam stood behind it, slamming another salt-shell into the chamber.  
  
“Who the hell is this guy?” Sam yelled. “You two know each other?”  
  
“Fuck, f’I know, Sammy. Never saw his fugly ass b’fore.” Dean struggled to hold his balance as a powerful gust of wind hit him. “Th’fuck?” He worked to get a firmer grip on the studding.  
  
Sam grabbed his brother by his collar. “Come on, man. We have to get you out of here.”  
  
“Dropped m’gun. Sammy. Can’t leave it behind.” Dean held onto his brother while shifting debris with his foot, trying to locate his gun.  
  
Sam propelled him forward. “We’ll get it in the morning. Not now. Move, Dean, I mean it or I’ll carry your ass out.”  
  
“Awright, geez, y’don’ have t’be such a bitch, Bitch.” Dean wobbled and snorted in Sam’s grip, chuckling. “Bitch, bitch, bitch.”  
  
“Focus, Dean. You gotta stay with me, man. We’re almost there.”  
  
Dean’s grin fell and he cradled his arm, hissing. “Don’ pull m’arm so much, Sammy. It hur’s.” He took a quivering breath, his voice sloppy with fever and pain. “Don’ feel s’good. I’mma be sick.”  
  
“Not here. You can puke your brains out as soon as we get to the Impala.” Sam pushed Dean toward the doorway.  
  
“Pfft, th’hell dude, n’gonna soil m’baby. N’fuckin’ way!”  
  
“Jesus.” Sam stopped and yanked Dean back.  
  
He lost his balance and bumped into Sam with a hiss. “Make up yer mind, S’mmy.” Dean gave his brother his own bitchface, but Sam’s attention was riveted elsewhere.  
  
Turning, Dean saw a black, spinning whirlwind gathering between them and the door. Jagged blue sparks of energy fingered outward as it rotated, moving in their direction. Wind howled and wood splintered as it bore down upon them.  
  
“We have to draw it away from the door.” Sam shouted to be heard above the roar.  
  
More wood tore away from the side of the building as Sam shifted, hugging the wall, giving the thing a wide berth so that they could eventually work their way around to the door. A blast of frigid wind from behind stopped the attempt, however. The ghost had returned, and it blasted the brothers into another wall. Sam’s gun flew from his hand, landing at the feet of the apparition.  
  
As Dean lay on the ground, fighting to say conscious, Sam grabbed his right arm and dragged him close enough to hook an arm around Dean’s waist. The spirit turned a splayed hand toward the dark, writhing storm, stopping its advance. Turning back, it bent down, eyeing a half-conscious Dean.  
  
“They belonged to me, _Ördög_ Fighter.” Its eyes flamed. “You stole them.”  
  
Dean kicked out with his foot, the only weapon he had. “Fuck you.” He spit the words at the ghost then hissed in pain. “I dunno wha’ you’re talkin’ ‘bout, douchebag. You got me confused w’someone else.”  
  
The specter laughed. “No. Same face, same big man. Big circus man. Strong again, ya? Devil Fighter.”  
  
“Well, you’re jus’ all sorts a’fuckin’ nuts, then. Nuunghhh.” He moaned as Sam eased himself out from behind him. Sam gripped his good shoulder, his eyes signaling for Dean to keep the spirit busy while he tried to retrieve the gun.  
  
The spirit stopped laughing, emotions turning on a dime as he screamed, “Hala promised! Pretty woman and little one belong to me—love me!”  
  
“Y’think I stole your girl, Farmer Bob?” Dean snorted, eyeing the specter’s red shirt and overalls. “S’that what this is about? Ah hell, dude, woul’n be th’first time. Take a number, pal. M’jus’ that fuckin’ good.” Dean baited the thing, a smirk on his face until a grimace of pain replaced it. He adjusted himself against the wall and held his shoulder, stealing a glance at Sam to see how close he was to the gun. The ghost noticed the gesture and turned toward Sam. With a flick of the spirit’s wrist, the gun flew through the air and smashed against a large support beam.  
  
“Enough.” More blue light flew from the apparition’s fingertips and the cyclone resumed its advance. “Time to pay, Dean.”

* *

 _March 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
A puff of dust followed Slaid’s angry footsteps into the root cellar. He paced the floor several times, running his hands through his hair as he spat and gurgled in frustration and anger.  
  
“A windy day? _This_ is my reward, ya?” Punching the wall, he wheeled around, slamming into the altar. He laid his hands on the corners, shaking and rattling it until red chicken-down floated in the air, the table nearly tipping over.  
  
“Hala promised power! Slaid gave his gift. Hala must obey.” Another bellowing roar of fury flew from his mouth and blue arcs of electricity ran up and down his fingers.  
  
All of his work and still neither whore had bowed to him. The little one refused to touch him, let alone do his bidding or satisfy his needs. The Hala had responded to the sacrifice, had given him some power, but not enough. Looking at his fingers, he watched the crackling blue threads of energy fizzle and subside. Molly had been too small, too meager—a big tease. Just like the women. He’d have to find a bigger offering.  
  
Dirty tears streaked down his face, making him look like a twisted harlequin in the pus-colored lamplight. He unhitched his overalls, the straps spilling down his back. Buttons scattered as he ripped his shirt from his chest. He yanked his pants down and began pumping his engorged cock, grunting in bitter outrage, gasping his unrestrained loathing. He despised the Devil Fighter and promised to bring pain and torment to him for taking what belonged to him.  
  
His dick spasmed and twitched through his climax. Prostrating himself before the altar, he promised the Hala a better offering, a worthy offering. A perfect offering.


	10. Black Wind Blowing

__

_April 12, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“You’re fine, Pally.”  
  
“Am not. I suck.”  
  
“Aw, Pally, C’mon. Don’t be that a-way. You’ll git it. It’s easy. Just allemande left, promenade with Mama around the square once, and _then_ do-si-do.”  
  
Florabel wobbled, standing on a chair, a poof of dust rising from the cushion when she moved. She paid no attention to that, though. Engrossed in her role of Square-dance Caller, the little girl instructed her cranky student, determined give him one more lesson before the Crawford’s big barn-dance the following night. Sadly, though, Dean had little passion for square-dancing. How could he not love it?  
  
“Ugh.” Dean whined. “This is so lame. I’m no good at this.”  
  
Emma chuckled and corrected his stance. He’d positioned her as if they were about to promenade instead of allemande. She tapped his hand, shooing it away from her back and motioned for him to grip from the front. “You’re doing fine, Dean. It ain’t easy at first.”  
  
He wasn’t buying the encouragement. “I’m gonna make a fool of myself.” He threw his head back, shaking it at the ceiling and groaning.  
  
Ever since the announcement that the Spring barn-dance would be held despite the lack of planting to celebrate, Florabel had been out of her mind with anticipation. She’d taken it upon herself to make sure Dean was Emma’s square-dance partner at the event, so lessons had been ongoing for the past week.  
  
Not only were they attending the dance on Saturday night, Emma had given permission for Florabel and Dean to attend the jackrabbit drive the same afternoon. Since the drive was the precursor to the dance, they were expecting a huge turnout. To top everything off, Florabel’s eighth birthday was the day following the dance, Sunday, April 14th. Added together, they had a hyper child bouncing off the walls. It was going to be a big weekend, and Dean didn’t want to disappoint the little girl. All the same, he thought, square-dancing sucked hairy balls.  
  
In the weeks following Molly’s disappearance and Dean’s run-in with Slaid, the two men kept their distance. With much of Dean’s time taken with the barn renovations, the two rarely met. Emma had helped by scheduling meals to avoid any possible confrontation. Being an early riser, Dean’d eat and head to the barn with Florabel and Jeb before Slaid awoke. Emma would often wander out with them and lend a hand or sit with Florabel and watch the men work as they all chatted together.  
  
They’d commandeered most of the necessary materials from Jeb’s old barn, having borrowed a truck from the Haffner’s to haul everything. _What them bankers don’t know or don’t see us take, ain’t gonna hurt them a lick!_ Jeb had said.  
  
For several weeks they repaired the barn under Dean’s meticulous eye. He didn’t have time to fight with Slaid. He still disliked and distrusted the farmhand, but there were always more pressing issues needing his attention. The worst of which was the nasty turn the weather had taken. Ever since the day Molly disappeared, the _blow season_ had lived up to its name, and there had been no respite from the raging dust.  
  
Constant winds menaced Boise City, gusts often exceeding 60mph. Daily dusters rolled through, causing their world to shrink to just the barn and windmill. The static electricity generated by the blowing dust left every living thing fried to a crisp. Emma’s pitiful kitchen garden was now nothing but rows of shriveled, blackened leaves. There would be no garden that year.  
  
In the mornings they’d wake to find that the shifting dust had drifted, blocking either the backdoor or the barn door, often times both. One day it took two hours for Dean and Jeb to dig their way through a nine-foot drift blocking the barn door, and by the time they were done that evening, they’d spent another two hours digging themselves back out. They’d nearly lost the rest of the chickens on one occasion when a drift encroached on their coop. It became a constant struggle of backbreaking work and vigilance to keep their small space livable.  
  
Dean experienced no further visions that included Slaid, so he assumed the vision in the barn had been a fluke. While his episodes diminished in frequency, they were vivid and intense when they did occur. The worst of these episodes struck the day they went to gather wood from Jeb’s old barn. Dean had thoughtlessly gotten behind the wheel of the truck, triggering an intense vision of driving a large, black car. He’d tried to seize hold of Sam who sat in the passenger seat, but his hand passed right through him, as though either he or Dean was a ghost. The raw emotion he’d experience during the vision had overwhelmed him, and he felt bereft and homesick when he woke. Since then, Dean had withdrawn somewhat, worrying the others. His appetite dipped and he’d dropped more weight. As little as there was for any of them to eat, Emma never ceased trying to get him to eat more.  
  
This weekend, though, he promised himself to put all of that aside. This weekend belonged to Florabel. She’d been ticking off the days for weeks now, building up an insane, dervish excitement that only children are truly free enough to indulge in. The weekend was upon them, and Dean intended to make it special for her. So, if that meant participating in some goofy-ass dance, he’d do it. But it wasn’t easy.  
  
“Okay, now, mind your square!” Florabel called rhythmically, “And take your lady and allemande left! Come back and swing-swing-swing her boys! Promenade her home, and do-si-do!” All three of them stopped dead in their tracks, stunned. Florabel’s face sparkled with pride. “You done it! Pally!” She gasped in awe. “You done that perfectly!”  
  
Dean gave her an embarrassed, shrugging smirk. “This is so gay.” He lamented his plight with a good-natured shake of his head.  
  
Florabel stood back on her heels and folded her arms. “It really is, isn’t it, Pally? I _knew_ you’d like it if you gave it half a chance!” She smiled triumphantly.

* *

Florabel sat on a bale of hay, swinging her legs. “I cain’t wait for you to meet Lizzy, Pally.” Her fixation on the coming events continued to dominate conversation.  
  
Dean wiped his sweaty brow, unhooked another hay-bale from the pulley and stacked it in the corner of the loft. “Lookin’ forward to it.”  
  
“And Papa’s friends is gonna be there, too.” Her eyes followed him as he worked. “They play the music for the dance. Papa used to play the fiddle with ‘em. It’ll be so much fun, Pally!”  
  
“Can’t wait.” Dean rested while Jeb climbed down and attached the last bale to the ropes. He sniffed the air and made a sour face. “Man that stink is still lingering even after all this time.” He worked the pulley. “Something crawled in here and died. You’d think it would mummify and stop smelling so bad. You notice it, Jeb?”  
  
“Every once in a while.” Jeb climbed the ladder to help stack. “Mostly I just smell the skunk oil and turpentine on you and Florabel, though.” Ducking Dean’s playful thwap, he laughed. “Hey, you asked!”  
  
“Whatever.” Dean huffed at the man in mock offense. He passed a bale to Jeb to stack. “If there haven’t been crops in the past four years, where did all this hay come from?”  
  
“The government bought the starvin’ cattle. They came through a few months ago, just afore you showed up, and paid a few dollars per head an’ then took all them cattle to the field ‘n shot ‘em dead. Emma took them funds and bought enough hay for Penny to live on for a while. Before that, we was feeding her tumbleweeds.”  
  
“Jes—uh…” Dean noticed Florabel’s blue eyes hanging on his every word and chose another. “Je—Jehosephat!”  
  
“You can say that agin.” The old man dusted his overalls and surveyed their work. “I daresay this barn looks better’n what it did afore anything happened. You done good work, son.” Jeb clapped a fond hand on Dean’s shoulder.  
  
“Pally is the best fixer in the world.” Florabel applauded the two. “And now it’s gonna be all finished, and we can have fun on my Birthday with no workin’ allowed!”  
  
“Birthday?” Dean’s brow creased in confusion. “Is your birthday comin’ up for real? You hear anything about that, Jeb?”  
  
“Ha! I know you heard it, Pally, because I done told you every day for the past month!”  
  
“Ah, well.” He tapped his temple with a laugh. “My memory ain’t as good as most. I must’a forgot.”  
  
“You’s teasin’ me, Pally.” Florabel pointed an accusing finger at him.  
  
“Maybe.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “So, what do you want for your birthday?”  
  
The little girl shrugged. “Don’t matter. Ain’t got no money for presents. But what I really want cain’t be bought, anyhow.”  
  
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”  
  
Florabel kicked her heels against the bale and swayed back and forth shyly. “Mmm…I want…” She hesitated, staring at the ceiling.  
  
“Cat got your tongue? Now that’d be a first!”  
  
Florabel stuck her tongue out at Dean. “I want…” She bent forward, making a megaphone with her hands and whispering through it. “I want you and Mama to kiss.” She snapped her lips shut and went back to studying the rafters.  
  
Dean glanced at Jeb in terror. The older man chuckled and shrugged at him. Dean stopped his work a moment, leaning against a bale of hay. Taking off his heavy, leather gloves, he slapped the dust from them. He wiped his sweaty brow on his shoulder and grabbed his dust-bandana from his back pocket, wiping as much smudged dirt from his face as he could, stalling for time.  
  
“Well, I think your mama would have a big say in something like that.”  
  
“Mama wouldn’t mind.” Florabel tossed him an assuring nod. “She ain’t been kissed in a long time. Girls like kisses.” Sticking a finger in her mouth, she swiveled her thin body back and forth like a washing machine. “You should do it, soon. That a-way you can git married before the summer is over.”  
  
Dean choked on both the dust and the idea. “Whoa, there. You’re gonna give Pally a freakin’ heart attack.” He gave her at pained smile. “I think it’s a lot more complicated than that, Florabel.”  
  
“No it ain’t. You like her an’ she likes you. Old Jeb says life is short ‘n full a’blisters, but it wouldn’t be so bad if it was filled with kisses, too. Ain’t that right, Old Jeb?”  
  
Jeb tossed his hands in the air with a sheepish grin. “Don’t be draggin’ me into this, Miss Flibbertigibbet. I don’t want no trouble with neither one of ya. _A closed mouth gathers no boots_ is my motto.” He pantomimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key. He took off his gloves. “And on that note, I gotta skedaddle. Me and the other old boys is gonna git everything ready for the dance tomorrow night. I expect lots’a work an’ lots’a whiskey. I probably won’t be back. I’ll see you two tomorrow at the jackrabbit drive.”  
  
“Coward!”  
  
“Yep.” Jeb nodded to Dean.  
  
“Well, don’t go without me. I’ll walk into town with you. I have to run an errand or two.” Dean strode over to Florabel and turned around, patting his shoulder. She hopped onto his back and wrapped her legs around his waist. “You hold on good ‘n tight, ‘Bel.”  
  
“I will, but I still think you should kiss Mama.” She pressed her cheek against his ear. “Grownups is so silly, sometimes.”  
  
“Mmm hmm.” Dean swung over the ladder and followed Jeb to the barn floor. “Says the little monkey on my back.”  
  
She popped her finger in her mouth and stuck it in his ear. “I ain’t a monkey. I’m a willie-monster! GrarrRR!” She re-wet her finger with a growl, wiggling it at him.  
  
“Ugh! You know wet-willies are against the law in all fifty states, right?” He set her down and wiped out his ear with a shiver.  
  
She laughed at him. “You’s so funny! They’s only forty-eight states, silly Pally!”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows pinched. “Huh?”

* *

Dean and Jeb parted ways on the edge of Boise City, Jeb turning off at the Crawford’s dirt road on the northern outskirts of town. Other than a couple of quick trips through the city on their way to Jeb’s old farm, Dean hadn’t spent any time here, but with Jeb’s directions he was able to find _The Busy Bee_ with no problem. Glancing up at the false front, Dean shook the dust from his hair and went inside.  
  
Quiet and still, after the ever-present swish of the wind, the tavern was no more than a dark, smoky blur. Vacant tables lined the dust-coated windows, a few men scattered about, drinking to cut the dusty phlegm or pass the time. Dean heard the sound he’d hope to hear coming from a dark alcove.  
  
The barkeep hailed him as he made his way past, his boots echoing with loud, hollow thuds as he went. “Can I git ya anything, Stranger?”  
  
“Not yet.” Dean gave the man a friendly nod.  
  
He stopped in front of the side-room, watching. A handful of men huddled around the table, cues in their hands, drinks resting on the sides.  
  
“Y’ain’t gonna make it, Dex,” One man snickered as Dex, presumably, lined up his shot.  
  
“He will, too.” Another man joined in, eying the table, assessing the shot.  
  
“Two-bits says he won’t.”  
  
“You’re on, Charlie.”  
  
Dean cleared his throat, catching the attention of the room. He leaned against the doorway, pulled the silver ring off his finger and tossed it in the air. With a cheeky grin and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he peered at them through the circle of his ring.  
  
“So, you boys up for a game?”

* *

“Nine, ten, eleven…twelve dollars and,” he counted the coins in his hand, “sixty three cents!” He twisted the ring around his finger, screwing it in place. “Ha! I’m fuckin’ awesome.” He walked along the street feeling fine and alive. Two blocks past the tavern he came upon _Coulter’s General Store_ and ducked inside.  
  
A voluptuous woman in her mid-to-late twenties sat behind the counter, flipping through a magazine. When she heard the bell she looked at Dean, closed her magazine with an enthusiastic snap and straightened her dress.  
  
“Howdy there.” She beamed at him. “Can I help you find somethin’, honey?”  
  
“Uh, I’m interested in toys for a little girl.” The woman’s cleavage drooped at the news.  
  
“Oh…” she stammered, “oh sure, honey. We got some nice dolls over yonder.” She led him to the back of the store.  
  
Dean considered the dolls with a shrug. “She ain’t into dolls much, I don’t think. Maybe some games or puzzles?”  
  
“Right this way.” She led him down another aisle. “Your daughter a tom-boy?”  
  
“Naw, she’s not mine. She’s just a good friend.” The pang of regret he felt surprised him. However, the woman, along with her bosom, perked up considerably.  
  
“Well, ain’t that swell.” She straightened her hair and put her hand on her hip, swaying coyly. Before Dean could respond, something caught his eye. He picked up a small doctor’s kit, complete with a toy stethoscope and thermometer.  
  
“Oh man, this is perfect.” Opening the bag, he examined the contents.  
  
“She wanna be a nurse?”  
  
“A doctor, thank you very much.” Dean didn’t mask the pride in his voice.  
  
The woman snorted. “A woman doctor?”  
  
“Hey, she can do anything she sets her mind to. She’s smart…and really, really, _really_ tenacious. Trust me. She’ll do it.” He smiled and shook the kit. “I’ll take it. And I need some marbles and some candy, too.”  
  
In the end he left with a brand new set of marbles, the doctor’s kit, and two striped bags filled with chocolates. He counted his change. With over eight dollars left, he felt rich. He put two dollars deep into his pocket and folded the rest to give to Emma for his room and board. He hoped she wouldn’t fuss at him about hustling pool.  
  
The wind blew in his face all the way home. He had to keep his shirt over his mouth and walk with one foot on the pavement and one foot off, guiding himself by touch. He remained in high spirits, though. Florabel would remember this birthday forever.  
  
Returning to the farm, he bypassed the house, ducking into the barn before Florabel spotted the packages. He’d climbed the ladder to the loft looking for a good hiding place, when he heard a thump come from somewhere below. Walking to the edge, he watched as Slaid emerged from a trapdoor in the floor between the partition separating Penny’s stall from the rest of the barn. Dean ducked behind a bale of hay and kept a surreptitious eye on the farmhand.  
  
Dean noticed Slaid’s blood-covered hands as he eased the trapdoor shut and spread hay around as camouflage. Once Slaid was gone Dean hid Florabel’s gift in the loft and climbed down the ladder, kicking hay around until he revealed the door. Lifting it, he recoiled. This was the source of the putrid odor he’d been smelling for weeks. Eyes watering and stomach retching, Dean turned his head and gagged on the foul rot. After catching his breath, he steeled himself and descended into the darkness.  
  
Turtling into his shirt, he fumbled until he found the kerosene lamp by the wall. The light did little to lift the gloom. The air was so thick and stifling Dean could almost chew it. He took several shallow breaths, surveying the room.  
  
_Depraved_ didn’t do the place justice, nor did _sadistic_ or _inhuman_. The corpses of jackrabbits and other unknown rodents and small animals riddled the floor. Their state of decomposition varied from recent, bloated kills, to maggot and centipede infested corpses, to desiccated, crunchy piles of matted fur and bones.  
  
Steeped in the feral cocktail of sweat, rotting corpses, and human feces, Dean folded at the waist and added some vomit to the mix. Resting his hands on his knees he retched several more times before he mastered his reflexes. He wiped tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve before glancing about.  
  
Someone had smeared the walls with blood and shit, creating lewd pictographs, macabre forms in obscene poses, some with animal entrails nailed to the ghastly depictions. Dean walked to a semen-spattered table at the far end of the room. More pearly stains splashed and speckled the floor around its base. Ashes and half-burned herbs rested in bowls on top. Dean thought of the window-box in the bunkhouse.  
  
“That mother fucker.”  
  
This was evil—pure evil. Bending forward, he studied the runes written in blood on the tabletop and reached out with his fingers. The moment he touched the bloody symbols, he slithered to the floor, the air in his lungs whooshing out of him with a grunt of surprise and anxiety.  
  
“No!” He heard himself shout as the vision swallowed him.  
  
A series of fragmented images stuttered around him at lightning speed, too fast for his brain to process—nightmare creatures partaking in bestial acts. Each image morphed into the next before true recognition sparked. Dizzy, Dean loosed a strangled cry as he fought to shield himself from the deluge. Eventually, the images slowed enough for him to process them: a strange, seven-pointed star painted on a ceiling, a young, blonde woman bound beneath it, Sam reading something from a book as she screamed.  
  
Dean sensed the floor of the root-cellar beneath him and he clutched and fisted the filthy straw, struggling to escape the vision. More than fear of the vision, Dean needed to escape to make sure Florabel and Emma were safe. He cried out again, fighting off the vision, but it sucked him down as the scene continued.  
  
The blonde girl leered at him, her smug, black irises filled with contempt.  
  
_I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna rip the bones from your body._ Despite the girl’s bravado, she hissed in pain.  
  
Dean’s baleful eyes bored into her. _No. You’re gonna burn in Hell…_  
  
Thrashing on the floor, Dean fought the vision. He turned onto his stomach and scrabbled at the dirt, his hand hitting the base of the altar. He gripped it. It was solid. It was real. He levered himself up, working his way out of the black dream. He knew he was close when the odor of suffocating, noisome rot assaulted him.  
  
His eyelashes fluttered and he blinked several times, gulping air until his legs buckled again from the fetid decay. He was back. As Dean stood there, gasping and straining, he caught the flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He bent for a closer look. Scattered haphazardly about the table and around the floor were Molly’s beautiful red, downy feathers.  
  
“You sonofabitch!”  
  
He should have listened to his gut instincts. He should have paid closer attention to his visions. Slaid _was_ a monster. Florabel had known. She’d tried to tell him. She’d tried to tell everyone. Slaid had killed Molly as part of some evil ritual. Dean crushed the feathers between his fingers and flew up the ladder. Surfacing, he staggered, falling to his knees, sucking air like he’d never get enough.  
  
After a few minutes, he recovered and shut the trapdoor, scattering hay to conceal his visit. He didn’t want Slaid knowing he’d discovered his lair. With a lurch, he rose to his feet and reeled his way from the barn. His eyes went to the bunkhouse. He’d deal with that monster as soon as he knew Emma and Florabel were safe. They came first. When he entered the kitchen, he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking.  
  
“Dean! You’s back! Did you have a good time?” Emma continued to bustle around the kitchen. “I think I actually scraped together enough ingredients to make a cake for Florabel. Ain’t got nothing to ice it with, but that don’t matter none.” She gave the batter a few stiff licks with a large wooden spoon. When Dean didn’t respond, she glanced up at him.  
  
Seeing his face, she stopped in mid-stir. “Dean. What’s wrong?” Wiping her hands on her apron, she rushed to him. “Tell me.”  
  
“N—nothing.” He stepped back, clearing his throat. There was no way he could tell her anything. Not yet. He still had more investigating to do. “Uh, I just—I just went to town. Nothing’s wrong. I brought you this.” He fished out his pool winnings and handed her the cash.  
  
She balked at the wad of bills, confused. “What’s all this?”  
  
“I earned it playing pool. It’s cool, Em. Nobody got mad. We had a good time. I met Charlie and Ed Haffner and Mac and Dex Osteen—a couple of others. I want you to have that for letting me stay here. It’s not enough. It’s not near enough.” Distracted, his eyes darted about the room.  
  
“Dean, you don’t have to do that.” She made to return the money, but Dean walked away, peering into the empty parlor. Emma followed him.  
  
“Where’s Florabel?” His heart pounded in his chest.  
  
“She’s been bouncing off the walls, and her cough was bad today. I just sent her up to take a nap for an hour. I doubt she’ll sleep, though.” She shrugged and chuckled. “But I had to git her out from under foot while I baked the cake.”  
  
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.” He moved about the room like a caged animal.  
  
“Dean, did anything happen? You’s acting strange.” She approached him again, and again he eluded her, pacing away, prowling the room. “You been drinking?”  
  
He shook his head, not having absorbed the questions she’d asked. “No. I’m not sick. Feel fine.” His eyes flitted around. “Listen,” he said, switching gears, “do you mind if I go up and see Florabel for a minute?”  
  
Emma hesitated. “Dean, please tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong.” He lied. “I’m sorry. I just had a spell in the barn when I was putting some things away.” He waved his hand in the vague direction of the barn. “I’m just a little freaked out. It’s nothing, though.”  
  
Emma started to close in again, but she stopped herself, perhaps picking up on Dean’s agitation and his need for distance. “Are you sure you’s okay? What did you see? Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
“It was another jumbled mess. I thought I’d go sit with Florabel. You know how she can always cheer me up. I’m fine—really Em. I am.” He tried to convince her with a feeble smile.  
  
“Well…” The worry didn’t leave her eyes, but she nodded. “All right. You go on up. As soon as this cake is done, I’ll heat some stew for the three of us. Sound good?”  
  
“Sounds great.” He turned and ran up the stairs.  
  
He took a moment to gather himself before rapping with his knuckle and cracking the door. When he didn’t see Florabel in the bed, he pushed the door open.  
  
“Florabel?” He released a breath when the blanket-fort he’d helped the little girl build the day before jiggled. “You in there, kiddo?” The fort wobbled again and then stopped.  
  
After a long pause, she made a muffled reply. “I ain’t awake. Mama says I’m gittin’ on her last nerve an’ if’n I don’t take a nap I cain’t go to the jackrabbit drive.” The fort rocked and swayed again. A small foot popped from under one of the walls and then recoiled.  
  
Dean couldn’t help but smile, despite everything. “How’re you talkin’ if you’re asleep?”  
  
“I—uh…” There was a pause, followed by some overblown snoring noises.  
  
He slipped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door. Sitting on the bed, he lifted the sheet that served as the door of the fort. “Come on out, Florabel. Your mama said it’s okay for you ‘n me to visit a spell.”  
  
The child’s head poked out from behind the flap. “Good, ‘cause I was bored a’sleepin’.” She crawled out. “Did you have fun goin’ to town?”  
  
“I did.” He took her hand, helping her up. “Here, come and sit right here so’s we can talk.” Florabel jumped onto the bed and sat on top of the covers, drawing her legs into her nighty as she scrunched her toes in her blanket.  
  
“Did I do somethin’ wrong?” Worry creased her forehead.  
  
“Heck no,” Dean said. “No. I wanted to ask you a few questions is all. Just between you ‘n me.”  
  
“Mmm, okay.” She thought it over and agreed with a nod.  
  
Dean hesitated and shifted position, facing the girl. “So…” He stalled a moment, not sure how to approach this. “So, I was wondering about the time you saw Slaid turn into a monster.” He said the words casually, but the little girl shriveled into herself, hugging her legs and rocking back and forth. She fixed her eyes on her toes, making no answer other than the slightest of shrugs.  
  
“Can you tell me what you saw?” Dean studied her toes along with her. Florabel’s shoulders hunched toward her ears, and she held her legs tight. “Hey, Florabel,” he tried to reassure her, “ain’t no one ever gonna know but you ‘n me. When did he change into a monster?”  
  
She continued to stare at her toes, touching each in turn, thinking long and hard about things. “It was right after Henry went to Jesus.” Her small voice quavered, and she cleared her throat. “When Mama was sick in bed.” She pressed her toes into Dean’s leg, making contact with him, grounding herself. “But no one never believed me.” She squeezed her big toe in anger at that.  
  
“I believe you, Florabel.” She looked at him for the first time since he’d mentioned Slaid and monsters. “That’s right.” He nodded at her. “I believe you. In fact,” he tapped her toe as it pressed against him, “I think I seen him turn into a monster, myself.”  
  
Her eyes went wide. “You did?”  
  
“Yep. So I want to know what happened when you saw him, so I don’t feel so alone and scared no more.”  
  
Florabel rose to her knees and leaned in, patting his arm to offer comfort. “It was scary, wasn’t it, Pally?”  
  
“It was.”  
  
“An’ did he growl at you, too?”  
  
“Kind of.” Dean grazed her chin with his thumb. “Why don’t you tell me about the time you saw him change into a monster, just so I know I ain’t crazy,”  
  
“You ain’t crazy, Pally.” She settled in to tell her story. “Well, it was just afore Christmas. Old Jeb was taking care of Mama when she got sick. An’ Slaid wanted to play marbles with me, but we had to go to the bunkhouse, he said, so’s we wouldn’t wake Mama. Then, when we got there, he changed right into that monster, an’ he growled at me. GrrrrrarrRrrrR!” She demonstrated by turning her hands into monster-claws, growling and pawing the air. “He scared me so bad, Pally. I tried to run away.”  
  
“Did he start to shimmer and disappear a little?”  
  
Florabel thought a moment. She tapped her lips, thinking back. “Mmm, not really.”  
  
Dean slumped in disappointment. He considered other options. “Did his eyes turn all black?”  
  
She shook her head. “No, but they was rollin’ around. And he wiggled a lot.”  
  
“Wiggled?” Dean raised an eyebrow, confused.  
  
“Uh huh.” She got up on her knees. “Like this.” She resumed her monster-pose, throwing herself into the part. “RaawwrrRr!” Moving close to Dean, she growled her most ferocious growl, her body gyrating and undulating against his. Rising, she fondled his face and licked his cheek while she rolled and fluttered her eyes. Then, without warning, she swooped down with a snarl and grabbed Dean’s crotch.  
  
The touch was so shocking, so unlooked for and unexpected, that Dean jolted off the bed, staggering back against the wall. Florabel gazed up at him, her eyes soulful and innocent.  
  
“Did he do that to you, too, Pally?”  
  
Dean stared at the girl, floored—horror fusing with a quiet, profound dread. He stood there, saying nothing, trying to wrap his brain around what had just happened  
  
Florabel blinked at him. “Did he jab you, too, Pally?” She pointed to Dean’s groin. “It hurt, didn’t it?”  
  
_Oh God._  
  
 “Florabel?” He looked at the beautiful child on that bed; no words came.  
  
She reached out her small hand, offering comfort and understanding. “It’s okay, Pally.” She touched his cheek, her eyes dewy with sympathy. “You can tell me. I’ll believe you.”  
  
_Oh God._  
  
He sat, grasping her by the shoulders. When his forceful, needy grip made her stiffen, he readjusted, gentling his touch. He didn’t want to spook her.  
  
“Florabel, did he touch you down there?” He pointed.  
  
She nodded. “He did, Pally, and it hurt real, real bad.”  
  
_Oh God._  
  
She sagged with a sigh, sitting Indian-style. “I tried to run away, but he caught me and he pushed me onto the floor. All my marbles spilled and rolled everywhere.” She twitched, mourning her lost marbles as much as anything Slaid had done. “He was growlin’ and pantin’. His eyes was a-rollin and a-rollin’ just like yours done when you was so sick. I was scared at first that you was a monster, too, but you wasn’t. It was just your fever.” She glanced at him. “Slaid didn’t have no fever. He weren’t even speakin’ English no more. He started talkin’ in his other language. Or maybe it was _monster-talk_. His fingers pressed and pressed into me, and I screamed because it hurt so bad. Then, he put his hand over my mouth and kept lickin’ me. Like a dog, he licked me. GrarRrrr! An’ then he panted and growled some more. That’s when he pulled the thing out’a his tummy.”  
  
Dean swallowed bile. “What thing?”  
  
“It was this thing a’comin’ out’a him, right about here.” She pointed to her crotch. “It weren’t like Henry’s little will. It was this big thing growing out of a pile of ugly, tangled hair, all hard and long. Did he jab you with it, too? It must ‘a been something only a monster has, an’ that’s when he hurt me so bad, Pally.”  
  
He couldn’t take anymore. Dean swept the child up and crushed her to him in a devouring hug. Florabel laid her head on his shoulder. “He jabbed and jabbed and jabbed me until I couldn’t even scream no more ‘cause it hurt so bad. And I was bleedin’.” Dean held onto her, fighting for composure. “It hurt for days and days.”  
  
He pressed his lips into her hair. “Why didn’t you tell your Mama or Jeb what he did?”  
  
“I did tell them!” She lurched back, defending herself. “I tol’ ‘em he turned into a monster, but they wouldn’t believe me.” Her eyebrows pinched in wounded indignation. “An’ Slaid said if’n I tol’ them about him jabbin’ me, he’d jab them even worse than what he done to me.” Swallowing, she squeezed her eyes against the memory. “So I didn’t. I just tol’ ‘em what a mean, growlin’ monster he was, because he didn’t say I couldn’t tell ‘em that. But Mama said there weren’t no such things, even though there is so. I didn’t want her to find out about monsters by being jabbed by one, like me. And Mama was already so sad about Henry. I didn’t want Slaid to hurt her. So you cain’t tell her, Pally, ‘cause then Slaid will hurt her with his jabber. Please don’t tell her. Promise me.”  
  
A tear slipped down his cheek before he could catch it. “I won’t say anything.” He told her the ugly lie.  
  
Florabel patted Dean’s cheek. “How hard did he jab you? Did he make you bleed, too?”  
  
Dean tried to smile but failed, his jaw trembling. “He didn’t jab me. I got away.”  
  
The little girl sighed with relief. “Oh, good! I’m glad, ‘cause it really, _really_ hurts. You stay away from Slaid.”  
  
“I will.” Releasing her, he stripped back the covers and got her settled. He wiped away another tear.  
  
“Why’s you cryin’, Pally? Did he do anything else?”  
  
He shook his head and cleared his throat. “No. I’m just sad that he hurt you.” Dean busied himself with her blanket, fastidiously tucking and folding until he could speak without breaking down. “Slaid did a terrible thing to you. And I promise you he will _never_ do it again. Ever. I’m gonna make sure of that. Until then, you stay away from Slaid. Don’t you go near him unless I’m with you.” He gripped her shoulder. “I promised you, now you promise me.”  
  
“I promise.” She offered him her pinky to make it stick. They twined digits and gave them a sober tug. “I’m glad you’re here with us, Pally. I ain’t near as scared when you’s here.”  
  
“You get some sleep.” He kissed her wheat-colored hair.  
  
She threw her arms around his neck. “I love you, Pally.” There wasn’t a trace of self-consciousness in the gesture, no baggage, no complication beyond a little girl offering the best she had to give. It was pure and innocent and very, _very_ real.  
  
“I love you, too, Florabel.” That was real, also.

* *

 _February 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
The first blast from the Cyclone hit Sam from behind, flinging him into Dean. The impact had Dean’s eyes rolling back in his head as they fell together. A second gust sent them on an uncontrolled roll across the floor, arms and legs tangled in each other until they crashed into a support beam. Sam wrapped an arm around the column, shifting and straddling it as his brother tumbled past him like a ragdoll, the wind taking him wherever it would. Sam caught Dean by his left arm, wrenching a scream of agony from him.  
  
“Sammy! Jesus! Fuck!” Dean tried to reach up with his right hand to take the pressure off his wounded arm, but another gust blew into them, forcing Sam to pull harder. Dean screamed again as more timbers cracked and broke. The far wall folded in on itself and collapsed, debris flying out onto the prairie.  
  
“Hang on, Dean! I got you!” He attempted to haul his brother close enough to grab something else besides his arm, but every time he tried, another gust rammed into them. The shrieking blasts were as strong as a wind tunnel, and Sam struggled to breathe as he clung to Dean.  
  
“Fuck, Sam! Lemme go,” Dean yelled, his pale face etched with pain. “L’go!”  
  
Sam ducked as more beams snapped and blew past them. The Cyclone was closing in. “No! I got you!” Sam refused to give up, gripping all the harder.  
  
Making one more desperate bid to get a better hold of his brother, he yanked on Dean’s arm, dragging him a few inches closer.  
  
When the ghost suddenly flickered in front of them, Sam’s grip slipped, and he lost what little headway he’d made.  
  
“Hala gives power!” The spirit swaggered close to Dean. “Finally, Devil Fighter pays.”  
  
Dean lifted his heavy lids, dangling in Sam’s arms. “Make ‘im b’quiet, Sammy. M’arm hur’s.” He blinked. “M’tired.”  
  
Before Sam could do or say anything else, something flickered in his peripheral vision. Another figure shimmered into view on the opposite side of the room, its shape amorphous and undefined, as though it lacked the power to manifest. Whatever or whoever it was, it had a strong effect on the Cyclone. The figure released a bolt of energy toward the vortex, slowing its advance.  
  
The first ghost flickered and seethed in anger at the new arrival. It repeated its incantation. “ _Én itt beidéz, Hala. A szél az Ördög!_ ”  
  
Jets of electricity spewed from its hands and attached to the Cyclone. An answering call came from the shadowy being on the far side as it, too, tethered the storm with spines of lightning. The opposing forces caused the Cyclone to crackle with energy. It thundered to a stop and then started to wrap in on itself, rotating now in the opposite direction.  
  
Sam pulled his brother closer to him during the lull. Grasping fistfuls of Dean’s shirt, he released his wounded arm, though Dean no longer appeared lucid enough to notice the difference.  
  
The wind shifted. With the two spirits fighting for control, the Cyclone began drawing air into itself. Both specters winked in and out of phase as the pressure built. Sam jolted when a blue finger of electricity ran down the post and shocked him. He looked around, noticing that everything else in the room now sizzled and snapped with the same blue spider-veins of energy.  
  
The vacuum strengthened, sucking everything into the spinning Cyclone. The first specter shrieked in dismay as the combined strength of the opposing entities took its toll on the structure of the Cyclone. A core of light opened in the heart of the vortex, and Sam fought its magnetic pull. He held his brother by his shirt as Dean slipped toward it.  
  
Sam shook him, forcing him to stay conscious. “Dean! Stay with me!”  
  
Pieces of debris flew past and into the center of the storm, devoured with an electric crackle. Whatever the second entity had done, whether it was trying to stop the attack or assert one of its own, it’d only exacerbated things. More beams sailed past and into the vortex, disappearing as though eaten by a black hole. A seam of Dean’s shirt ripped. Sam twisted his fist into the material, clutching at it.  
  
“Hang on, Dean!” Sam begged his brother. Another seam tore in his hands.  
  
Dean looked up with weary eyes, milky with pain. “Don’t l’go, Sam.” He swung his good hand up, trying to grip Sam’s but missed. “Please don’t let go.”  
  
Sam dug his hands into Dean’s shirt, eyeing the black Cyclone. “God damn you!” Sam shouted at it, trying to hang onto the column as he played a deadly game of all-out tug-of-war for his brother.  
  
His ears popped, making everything sound as if he was under water. Then, with the force of a sonic boom, the vortex split open, a gaping hole to nowhere sucking everything into it. The walls crumpled like tin foil and were gone, the Cyclone consuming all. Dean’s shirt ripped a final time.  
  
“No! Dean! Grab my hand!” Sam screamed. “Dean! Goddamn it! Grab my hand!”  
  
“Sammy…” Dean tried to reach him with the last ounce of his strength.  
  
Just as their fingers touched and hands clasped, the beam Sam clung to split with a tremendous crack. The brothers made eye contact, acknowledging the moment, silently speaking ten-thousand-and-three words to each other. With their anchor to the floor broken, they tumbled toward the vortex. Sam made one last desperate grab for Dean, but he only caught his fingers in the thin leather strap of his amulet. It broke off as they fell into the storm, Dean plummeting into the blinding core while Sam hit the outer band of the spinning wind.  
  
As his brother disappeared into the storm, Sam lost his own battle with the Cyclone. It tossed him around its perimeter, murmuring to him, darkening his mind and memory. Tangled up in a shredded tarp, Sam was thrown clear with nothing left to do or to see or to be. There was nothing left but the whispering wind.

* *

 _April 12, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
He didn’t feel the stairs beneath him as he made his way out—didn’t remember walking through the parlor or toward the backdoor. He had one thought. _Find Slaid_.  
  
“Dean, answer me, please!” Emma put her hand on the doorknob, trying to stop his exit.  
  
“I’m sorry.” He gave her an empty glance. “What?”  
  
“I been tryin’ to talk to you.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “You’s a million miles away. You’s scarin’ me. Stop and tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
“Wrong?” He reached for the door. “Nothing. I just need to talk to Slaid a moment. Is he in the bunkhouse?”  
  
“Slaid? What’s he done?” She positioned herself between Dean and the door. “Dean, what’s he done?”  
  
“I…he…” He faltered, remembering his promise to Florabel. He knew he’d have to break it, but he couldn’t do this now. Not this weekend. They’d both been through so much. “He—he messed with some tools I was using in the barn. He pissed me off, Em. I just wanted a word with him.”  
  
“I’ll speak to him for you.”  
  
“Em…I’ll be civil.”  
  
“Well he ain’t even here,” she said. “He went off to help at the Crawfords’ farm a little bit ago. Won’t be back ‘til tomorrow. It’s just you, me, ‘n Florabel tonight. I got stew warmin’ up, now. You wash up and we can have a good evening together.”  
  
“Okay.” He nodded. “I just want to go to the barn and find a better hiding place for the presents I got Florabel.”  
  
“You didn’t need to have done that.” Her eyes smiled at him. “You’ll spoil her.”  
  
He opened the door. “Well, she could use a little spoiling. I’ll be right back.”  
  
As soon as he was free, he ran to the bunkhouse. Once inside he made a frenzied circuit around the room, yanking the herbs from the window box, and then snatching Florabel’s marbles from Slaid’s drawer. Jumping the cot, he opened Jeb’s drawers, searching through them one after another until he found what he was after. Moving a pair of socks out of the way, he grabbed Jeb’s small revolver.  
  
Dean studied the weapon with the eyes of an expert, agile fingers flying over the gun, opening the cylinder and checking the bullets.  
  
“Needs a good oiling.” He looked down the sights, tutting.  
  
This time he had no warning—no sense of falling, no slow melding of scenes. One minute he was looking down the barrel of a gun, the next he was watching Sam looking down a barrel of a gun—at him. Dean lay on his back in a dilapidated building with Sam standing over him, his face contorted with hatred and rage. Dean’s breath came in constricted puffs as he rubbed his stinging chest. Sam readjusted the gun in his hand, finger twitching on the trigger.  
  
_You hate me that much?_ He tried to touch Sam, but he was stuck as a passenger again. _You think you can kill your own brother?_  
  
Dean reeled. Brother? Sam was his brother?  
  
_Then go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it!_ He flinched as Sam…as his brother…pulled the trigger—again and again and again.  
  
The scene changed. He stood on an ice-cold dock, staring into dark waters. Sensing danger from behind, he turned to see his brother standing several yards away. Again, he tried to make physical contact, but his body wouldn’t respond. He watched in horror as Sam raised the gun and pulled the trigger with a smirk. Dean’s shoulder erupted with hot pain as the bullet penetrated. Grabbing at the wound, he pitched into the frigid water below.  
  
Dean bolted up with a guttural cry of pain and shock. He was back at the bunkhouse, gulping air and cradling his shoulder. Easing his hand away, he looked at his scar.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
Sam was his brother. And his brother had shot him—had left him for dead. The floor tilted and Dean tumbled onto his side, cheek pressed against the dusty floor. He watched dust grains blow away from his nose and mouth as he heaved and strained. The betrayal toppled everything he thought he knew. Sam. Sam hated him. Sam had sneered and joyfully pulled the trigger. Sam had tried to kill him. He’d have succeeded had it not been for the Livingstons. Dean closed his eyes and spoke the word over and over in disbelief and shock. _Sam. Sammy. Sam._  
  
He still had no true memory of the events or of his brother, but the hopes he’d built upon that name had kept him going all this while, had been his anchor. But he’d had it all wrong. Sam wasn’t searching for him, wasn’t feeling the same sense of loss. Sam wasn’t wondering what might have happened to Dean. _He_ had happened to Dean. Sam was the reason he was here. And it was ten times more devastating knowing he’d been family. Dean couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done to deserve it.  
  
“It’s okay,” he told himself. “I’m all right.” He remained there, lulling himself into a trance as he repeated the words. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” Sam may have wanted him dead. But he was alive. Lying on his side he could see under Jeb’s bed. As he chanted his mantra, he noticed a lone marble that must have rolled away when Slaid had attacked Florabel—when he’d raped her. Dean focused on the blue marble, closing his palm around it as he continued his constant reiterations. “I’m okay. I’m all right.”  
  
For the past two months Dean had felt torn between worlds. But it had been a lie—a delusion. Sam had not been tugging on that rope. Dean had simply been pulling against the Livingstons, trying to hold onto a life that didn’t want him. “I’m all right.” Everything he’d believed about his past had been wrong. He wasn’t needed, wasn’t wanted. “I’m okay.” He grasped the marble in his hand and held it to his heart. “I’m good.”  
  
He sat up. There was no way to reconcile his past, no way to make it right. It had been a savage, ugly thing, a place where loyalty meant nothing, where love wasn’t real. He was better off where he was. “I’m fine.” He put the blue marble in his pocket with the others he’d reclaimed from Slaid’s drawer. He stuck the gun in another pocket and stood on quivering legs. “They need me.” He thought of Florabel and Emma, people who’d cared for him better than any family member could have, who’d healed him, supported and loved him without ever asking for anything in return. “What I have is good,” he said. “This is fine. They need me.”  
  
There was a monster on the loose. Perhaps not the kind he’d expected at first, but one just as insidious and dangerous as any fantastic, supernatural monster he’d fought in his past—or had thought he’d fought. It didn’t matter, though. Protecting the girls was all that mattered. He’d take care of Slaid, hunt him down and make him pay for what he’d done. Dean didn’t need Sam’s help for that. He didn’t need to remember his past. He was fine.  
  
He stumbled out the door and made his way toward the house. “This is where I belong.” A tear fell, but he swatted it away. “I’m _fine_ ,” he said, even as more tears fell. As he crested a small dust-dune, he lost his footing and slipped to his knees. “I’m…” he began, but he crumpled and started to heave green bile into the dust. He retched and coughed, tears leaving muddy tracks down his cheeks. He hugged his stomach, urging it to relax. There was no need to get so upset. His past didn’t matter. Sam didn’t matter. He didn’t need someone like that in his life. Sam had done him a favor by abandoning him.  
  
He looked down and stared at the oily slime he’d vomited into the dust. “I’m fine.” He nodded to himself. “Everything is fine.”


	11. Blood Of The Lamb

__

_April 13, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
It was more night than morning when Florabel opened her eyes, her tummy flopping with excitement as soon as she realized the weekend had arrived. With two whole days of non-stop Birthday celebrations, not even Christmas could incite as much hyperactive adrenaline.  
  
Standing on her bed, she danced a very private jig of joy and hopped off, getting dressed in record time. A string of unspoken superlatives fluttered across her face as she beamed in the mirror, but she swallowed it all, trying extra hard to be quiet. She wriggled with anticipation and licked her hand, taming her bed-head and swooping her hair into one manageable braid. She promised herself she’d wash up good and proper as soon as she finished her chores.  
  
First things first, though. She needed to sneak downstairs and poke Pally awake. Chore-time never felt at all like work when Pally was with her, teasing her and laughing as he caught centipedes faster than anyone ever could. She shoved her feet into a pair of floppy socks and laid her plans.  
  
Pally needed to have fun today. He’d been quiet and mopey yesterday. He wouldn’t eat his supper even after her mama had fussed at him; then, he’d been restless and uneasy, wandering aimlessly about the house. She tried to get him to play marbles with her, but he didn’t even feel like doing that. Seeing monsters sure took a lot out of a person, she knew better than anyone. She plunged her feet into her shoes. Maybe Slaid had used his jabber on him after all, and he didn’t want to say so. She would understand if he’d fibbed. That kind of thing was hard to talk about. It could ruin anyone’s appetite and make a person fractious. She’d just have to work extra hard to cheer him up.  
  
She tiptoed across the hardwood floor. Her mama’s room was next door and if she got caught awake this early, she’d be sent right back to bed. Slinking out her door, she was surprised to see Pally sitting all by his lonely self at the head of the stairs. He spied her and palmed something into his pocket as she padded over to him, whispering.  
  
“Whatcha doin’, Pally?”  
  
He straightened his back and stretched, giving her half a smile. He raked his fingers through his hair, his shaky hands hinting at an edgy weariness, his red-rimmed eyes confirming it.  
  
“I was too excited.” Florabel looked at his sad eyes and hollow cheeks. She didn’t think he looked very excited at all, but she didn’t contradict him. “Couldn’t sleep.” He continued to fib. “I decided to wait for you, but you should still be in bed. It ain’t quite morning yet.”  
  
“I cain’t sleep neither!” She flopped into his lap, uninvited but not unwelcome as he shifted and made way for her, wrapping his arm around her. “Ouch!” Whatever he’d put into his pocket was hard. “What is that, Pally? That smarts!” Dean moved her to his other knee.  
  
“It’s nothin’.” He changed the subject and dug into his other pocket. “Oh, hey, look what I found.” He opened his fist and poured four marbles into her hand.  
  
“My lost marbles!” Her volume rose with her enthusiasm, and Dean put his finger to his lips. She whispered. “How’d you git ‘em?”  
  
“Birthday fairy brought ‘em.” He gave her another partial smile, slumping against the wall.  
  
The little girl pinched her brows together. “That ain’t a real smile, Pally. How come you ain’t happy?”  
  
“Who says I ain’t happy?”  
  
“Your eyes say so.” She lowered her voice. “Did Slaid hurt you?”  
  
Dean tugged her braid and rubbed her back. “No. I’m fine.”  
  
“You ain’t, though.” Florabel craned her neck, peering at him. “I know you purty good, an’ they’s somethin’ wrong. If’n it ain’t Slaid, what is it? Didja have a bad spell? Is you missin’ Sam agin?”  
  
Dean released a derisive huff. “No,” he said, but then he faltered. “Maybe…I don’t know”

“You’ll see him agin, Pally. You just got t’believe.”  
  
He shook his head and swallowed. “I don’t think so.” They sat in laden silence. “I think you might be stuck with me.”  
  
“Then, this really is the best day ever. Even if they was no jackrabbit drive or dance.” She melted against him. “Mama an’ me will keep you forever ‘n ever. We won’t never hurt you.”  With a serene, tender smile, she reached up and pressed a marble into one of his nostrils.  
  
“Uh, Florabel—what are you doing?”  
  
“Givin’ you a present.” Her voice was dreamy with devotion, her blue eyes brimming with love. “It’s a lucky marble. You have to keep it forever ‘n ever.”  
  
Dean chuckled. “You’re a weird kid. You know that?”  
  
“Maybe.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “But at least you’s smilin’ now.”  
  
He took the marble from his nose and examined it. It was the marble he’d retrieved from under Jeb’s cot. He held it up to her face. “Same pretty color as your eyes, Florabel.” He stuffed it in his pocket. “I’ll never part with it.”

* *

 _February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Sam sighed. “I tried to hold on, but we fell. That’s all I remember.”  
  
“Jesus, boy.” Bobby scratched his stubble. “This is sure one hell of a mess.”  
  
“Tell me he’s not dead, Bobby.” Sam supported his ribs with his arm and ground his teeth. “Tell me we can get him back.”  
  
Bobby blew out a lungful of air. “I—I’m not…”  
  
“We’re getting him back.” Sam stood, his face defiant. “So let’s get to work.”  
  
The old hunter released a puff of tense air. “We hear you, kid.” He glanced at Ellen. “Jesus.” He put his cap on. “Okay, so what do we know, here? We got us two vengeful spirits and an elemental, by the sounds of it.”  
  
“ _Hala_ ,” Ellen said. “That’s what he called it, Sam?”  
  
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure that was the word. You ever hear of it?”  
  
Ellen sat and opened the laptop. “Bobby, you remember ‘bout ten years ago when Joshua banished that elemental up in Rome, NY? What was it he called it? _Ale_? _Ala_? What do you want to bet they’re related?” She settled in, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Here!” Sam and Bobby gathered around.  
  
“A Russian wind-demon?” Sam’s eyes scanned the screen. “Can a wind-demon swallow people?”  
  
Bobby read along. “Technically, it says it’s a Slavic wind-demon. There’s various related lore all over Eastern Europe. We’re talking very dark, raw energy, here—primitive.”  
  
“That’s probably why your brain _rebooted_ when you got too close; though, I’ve heard that even weak elementals can scramble folks’ eggs if they don’t know what they’re doing,” Ellen said.  
  
Bobby continued to read over Ellen’s shoulder. “These things are barely sentient. Says here, a couple hundred years ago, people used to think they were a source of tappable power—that anyone who summoned and compelled the demon would gain power over nature. Some even believed you could gain power over people, that one could control them—bind them somehow.”  
  
“Yeah.” Ellen pointed to the screen. “But it says here that was a false assumption. These demons don’t bestow power to control minds. The power allows one to direct or conduct the demon, focus its power to destroy things.”  
  
“Okay, but how in the hell did it know Dean?” Sam asked. “He was adamant that he’d never been here before, but this spirit wasn’t a death-echo mistaking Dean for someone else. It called him by name.”  
  
Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. “It don’t make a lick of sense.”  
  
“And how or why did it take him?” Sam asked.  
  
“Dunno as it was a conscious decision.” Bobby scratched his neck. “If you have two people pulling on something, sometimes you wind up breaking the very thing you’re fightin’ over. And this thing is just energy.”  
  
“Shit.” Ellen jolted in her seat, squinting at the screen. “It says these things were once used as doorways or portals. Russian folklore says black sorcerers and mystics used them to move about from place to place. They’d summon two or three demons in different locations and travel from one to the other. It says only the most powerful mystics could control the wind-demon in this fashion, but it was ill advised, because,” she read, “ _It was as though he who walked through the portal had taken a draught of the River Lethe, his mind cleared of past and present with no propitious means of recollection_.” Ellen finished reading. “Sound like anyone we know?” She nodded to the others. “So we have to be dealing with a bitch of a ghost. It has to be strong to create a portal.”  
  
“Or maybe it has to do with the two spirits having a pissing contest. Could be it’s responding to their combined energies.” Bobby said.  
  
“But wouldn’t there have to be a wind-demon summoned somewhere else for it to be used as a portal?” Sam asked.  
  
“You’d think.” Ellen leaned back in the chair, contemplating.  
  
“So,” Bobby looked from one to the other, “all we have to do is find the other person who happened to have summoned a wind-demon somewhere on the planet and ask them for our friend back.”  
  
Sam paced the room. “Dean would have called even if he’d ended up in Siberia. He’d have found a way if he could.” He ran his hands through his hair. “He was bad off even before he got too close to the demon. So he’s probably hurt and scrambled, both. How’re we gonna get him back if we don’t know where the other elemental is?”  
  
“It’s too bad we can’t get the elemental to reopen the portal and go fetch him,” Ellen said. “But whoever tried to go after him would wind up with no memories of why they went there in the first place. We’d just lose the other person as well.”  
  
Bobby stopped short. “That gives me an idea that might work.” He shooed Ellen away from the keyboard and started plugging away at something. “Anyone up for trapping a wind-demon and keeping two vengeful spirits at bay for a while?”  
  
“You make it sound so easy, Bobby,” Sam said with a huff.  
  
“Ain’t gonna be easy. It’s gonna be reckless, dumb and dangerous.”  
  
Ellen laughed at that. “Aw now, Bobby Singer, I always knew you’d eventually say those three little words that would make my heart go pitter-patter.” She leaned in to read the webpage Bobby brought up. “How can I resist?”

* *

 _April 13, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
The sun had no warmth to it, but it _was_ the sun. Visible for the first time in over a month, it shone bright enough to cast pale shadows. There was even a blue tinge to the sky. The wind still whipped dirt in their faces as they walked, but it was much calmer than it had been. Florabel thought it was a perfect start to a festive weekend, and the fact that they had kicked things off by walking toward Boise City was enough to make her burst with happiness.  
  
Her mama had spent the morning making her wash and change into her best overalls. Mama and Pally had worked together, packing the baked beans that mama had made for the dance that night and had gotten everything ready to go. She couldn’t believe they were finally on the way to the jackrabbit drive. Sandwiched between the adults, Florabel skip-hopped joyfully as they made their way toward town. Emma and Dean each took one of her hands and let her swing between them.  
  
“Higher! Higher!” She laughed and whooped as they took running steps, leveraging themselves to get her more altitude. As she came down, Dean caught her and tossed her onto his shoulders. The little girl squealed and held onto his chin. “I ain’t never been so tall before!”  
  
“Be careful.” Dean hopped, hoisting her higher. “Your head might hit the clouds. How’s the weather up there?”  
  
Florabel bounced and shimmied with delight. She wet her finger and stuck it high in the air. “Fair to middlin’!” She gave her report. “How’s the weather down there?”  
  
Dean took his own reading. “Fair to middlin’ down here, too.”  
  
“Don’t you hurt his shoulder, baby girl.” Emma set a warning hand on Florabel’s leg as she continued to bounce.  
  
“She’s fine,” Dean said with a smile. “Here, let me get that.” He took the basket Emma carried. Dean shifted it into his other hand and put his arm around Emma’s shoulder when she took a small misstep off the side of the road. She moved in closer to him, welcoming the contact. Florabel giggled above them.  
  
“What so funny?” Dean squinted up at her.  
  
“Nothin’.” She swung her heels against his chest. “This is just the best day ever. I cain’t help myself!”

**

Below her, Dean strove to put aside the devastation of the past twenty-four hours, determined to do whatever he needed to make the day special. Things were off to a good start. He found himself relaxing as he walked. Florabel’s slight weight on his shoulders and Emma’s gentle presence soothed him like a comforting balm. The solace he found in these two was genuine. He gave Emma’s shoulder an affectionate pat, and she responded with a soft, open smile as they walked.  
  
After a couple of miles Emma pointed in front of them. “Look at all them people.”  
  
The crowd bottlenecked at the turnoff leading to the Crawford’s farm. Folks nodded pleasantly to them as the trio pressed through the traffic jam and down a dirt road lined with dead, wind-beaten trees. Walking toward the large barn and an even larger crowd, Dean shriveled into himself, uncomfortable and out of his element. If he had to hazard a guess, he suspected he hadn’t been much of a people-person in his past. Claustrophobia settled in as he walked by so many staring eyes. Florabel bounced against him with uncontained energy and excitement.  
  
“Lizzy!” With a yelp of joy Florabel crawled down Dean’s back as if he was a jungle gym. He reached behind him to ensure she didn’t fall. A girl of a similar age waved and dragged her mother by the hand as the two children torpedoed toward one another. Meeting, they jumped and hopped around each other.  
  
“We miss you so much at school!” Lizzy clung to her friend. “It ain’t the same without you there.”  
  
Emma hugged Lizzy’s mother. “Pauline.” She kissed her cheek. “It’s so good to see you agin.”  
  
“Come meet Pally!” Florabel hauled Lizzy over until they stood before Dean. He knelt and held out his hand. “This is Lizzy. I told you all about her, ‘member?”  
  
“I sure do,” he said. “Hiya Lizzy. Is this your farm?”  
  
“Mmm hmm.” Lizzy flushed and shook his hand. She whispered in Florabel’s ear, her eyes on Dean. Florabel giggled and gossiped something back.  
  
“Dean, this is Lizzy’s mother, Pauline,” Emma said, rescuing him. He stood and shook the woman’s hand. “Pauline and I went to school together.”  
  
Pauline Crawford looked from Dean to Emma, beaming. “I’m so glad to meet you, Dean.” She patted his hand. “Welcome. You make good ‘n sure Emma keeps a tight hold on you today, especially if Jane Coulter catches sight of you.”  
  
“Huh?” His brow pleated. “Who’s she?”  
  
Pauline laughed and gave Emma a sideways glance. “She’s…”  
  
“…desperate.” Emma finished, and the two women eyed each other and laughed.  
  
Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets, gripping Florabel’s blue marble like a talisman. He hummed a tune he couldn’t remember the name of to soothe his sudden social anxiety.  
  
Pauline noticed his nervous tension and laughed. “Oh, it’ll be all right. You’ll be able to weather the likes of Jane.” She took another look at Emma and Dean. “Well, it was real nice meetin’ you. I cain’t tell you how much. I gotta git, they’s so much to do for the dance later on. Jack an’ me’s been runnin’ like chickens with our heads cut off for days now.” She took her daughter’s hand. “Come on, Lizzy.”  
  
Lizzy twined a finger around one of her curls. “Mama, I wanna stay with Florabel, cain’t I stay?”  
  
Pauline waited for Emma. “We got her.” Emma said, resting a hand on Lizzy’s head. “She can stay with us for the rabbit drive. Why don’t you take this?” She motioned for Dean to hand her the basket. “It’s for tonight. We’ll watch Lizzy for a few hours.”  
  
Pauline grabbed the basket and embraced her friend again. “All right.” She turned to Lizzy. “You mind Emma and Dean, now, and don’t run off nowheres. It’s a big prairie.”  
  
“I’ll be good, Mama.” She and Florabel clutched each other and twirled with happiness.  
  
After that, it became a constant stream of introductions—stranger after stranger—until Dean couldn’t remember who was who. The Osteen brothers had come up at one point and thumped him good-naturedly, bragging to Emma what a great pool player he was. Dean’s head swam from the constant stimulation. Every person they spoke to regarded him with such friendly curiosity, with such open fondness, that he didn’t know what to say or what to do. He’d been clapped on the back, hugged, pinched, prodded and poked by person after person happy to meet him. He found it all…bewildering. Sam’s twisted rejection had left him so wrung and broken, he didn’t believe he merited the neighborly acceptance and kindness these people offered.  
  
“You all right, Dean?” Emma asked. “You muddlin’ through okay?”  
  
He smiled down at her. “I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t reckon I spent much time with people in my past. This is all kind of new.”  
  
Emma thumbed some lipstick from his cheek, tsking. “I see Old-lady Folkers and her ol’ wrinkly, dewlap of a double-chin left a partin’ gift for ya. Gracious, Dean, you’ll be scarred for life.” She laughed, grabbing a hanky and wiping. “You’s doin’ real good.” She encouraged him, her eyes soft with concern. “Looks like they’s gonna have a big turnout today. I heard someone say we might have close to five-hundred folks here.” She patted his arm. “But, purty soon the drive will start an’ then you’ll have somethin’ to think about ‘sides all them people.” Her smile dropped off her face, spotting something behind Dean. “Oh dear.” Dean turned to see what had upset her.  
  
And just like that, his social anxiety melted away as Slaid and Jeb approached. Dean stiffened with fury. His hand went into his pocket, grasping Jeb’s gun, wanting nothing more than to put a bullet in that monster’s brain right there. He drew Florabel close. She looked up, confused, until she saw what was coming. She moved in without a word.  
  
“Big day, ya?” Slaid said as he walked up.  
  
Emma acknowledged him with a tight smile. “Looks like they have a mighty big group today with the wind as calm as it is.” She kept a soothing hand on Dean’s twitching back.  
  
“Our rabbit drive is gonna be the biggest there ever was.” Lizzy clapped her hands, boasting. Florabel tried to get a grip on her hand, but Lizzy walked toward Slaid as he bent down to her.  
  
“Is that right, little one?” His wolfish eyes raked over her as he stroked the girl’s long, black braids. “So dark and pretty you are.”  
  
Dean took two strides, gripped Slaid’s shirt and brought him up. “Don’t touch her.”  
  
Emma moved between them in an instant, pushing them apart. “None of that here, you two. I won’t have it.” Her voice told Dean she meant business. She gripped Dean’s arm, attempting to lead him and the children away.  
  
Slaid backed off, his hands in the air in capitulation. “Big Devil Fighter, always causing trouble, ya?” He shrugged. A few other people caught wind of the altercation and gathered around, whispering. “Wants little girls all to himself, maybe?”  
  
“You sonofabitch.” Dean’s vision tunneled as he charged the man. Halfway to his target, sturdy arms wrapped around his chest, restraining him.  
  
“All right, there, son.” Jeb adjusted his grip on Dean, steadying him. “Let’s just go on and take a little walk, now.”  
  
Dean’s eyes remained fixed on Slaid’s as Emma and Jeb led him away. Once Slaid disappeared into the crowd Dean shrugged Jeb’s arms off him. “I’m fine, Jeb. Damn it, let me go.”  
  
“You just need to cool off a moment, there, Dean. What’s got into you? Slaid’s a simple fool, and a rude one at that, but he wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”  
  
Dean huffed, wondering how Jeb would react if he knew. He’d promised Florabel he wouldn’t say anything, though, and for the moment, he’d stay true to his word. But these people needed to know what the man had done. He couldn’t protect Florabel with Emma and Jeb fighting him. The weekend—he’d give her this one damn weekend she’d so looked forward to, but then he’d have to break his promise. Dean bent over and took several breaths. Emma placed a hand on his nape. He tried to wince away, but she wouldn’t let him.  
  
“You’s all right, Dean,” she said. “Slaid was just tryin’ to be neighborly.”  
  
Dean let out a lungful of air, teeth grinding against each other. “Yeah, okay.”  
  
“Come on, Pally.” Florabel took his hand and tugged at him. “Let’s go line up for the drive. They’s getting’ everyone ready to go. Let’s have some fun.”  
  
“Okay.” He could do this. It was only a couple of days. “Lead the way.”

* *

Despite spending most of the time shadowing Florabel and Lizzy, the jackrabbit drive was a truly surreal experience and not something Dean’d soon forget. Hundreds of people queued up, spaced a few feet apart, and walked in a line through the dead scrub, kicking up dust as they strode along. Some struck spoons on pots, some beat drums, everyone shouted and whooped. Most of the men and boys carried clubs, beating them on the ground to herd the rabbits in the desired direction.  
  
Florabel squealed with delight when she saw her first jackrabbit. Panic-stricken, it bounded from a knot of dead thistle and leapt ahead of the approaching wall of humanity. Soon one rabbit became two and then two became three. In no the entire floor of the prairie swarmed with jackrabbits, scurrying in and out of buffalo-wallows, frantically seeking shelter but finding none.  
  
The crowd dogged the rabbits for close to a mile into the prairie and then swept around, hemming in as many as possible and walking back, a carpet of rabbits sprinting before them.  
  
Soon after they’d made the turn, Dean noticed Slaid had wormed his way near Emma and the girls. Holding a club in his hand, the farmhand pounded the ground as he walked. Making eye contact with Dean, he gave him a curl of his lip and pounded the earth again. He cased Florabel and Lizzy, pointedly edging closer, making a game out of harassing them—harassing _Dean_. Slaid smirked at Dean, challenging him to do something about it.  
  
Dean decided to do some herding of his own. Gathering the oblivious women, he guided them to another place in the line. No sooner had Dean settled them but Slaid showed up again, malicious glee in his eyes.  
  
Florabel and Lizzy ran about, mindless with excitement and adventure, chasing after stray rabbits that hopped and bounded through their legs in a desperate bid to stay ahead of the clubs. The children took no notice of Slaid hovering behind them, bating Dean. When Slaid followed them again after another move, Dean had had enough. Just as he dashed forward to take a swing at the bastard, the crowd shifted and tightened, creating a thin, tight run for the rabbits, leading them to the pens. The scene soon became chaotic and confusing, people running about, trying to contain hundreds of frenzied rabbits bounding everywhere. Dean lost Slaid in the crowd.  
  
Dean shepherded the girls while their attention remained on the swarming rabbits. Within minutes the gates closed, trapping over a thousand of them in the holding pen. Dean remained tense and alert, scanning the crowd for Slaid but not finding him.  
  
A tall man with a megaphone addressed the crowd. “Now we’re gonna be gittin’ these here fine critters on the trucks in just a few moments.” He winked at the crowd. “So any folks who want to take them-there young kiddies on to the barn for some punch while we show these fine varmits a right-good send off, you best take them and skedaddle.” Several parents took the hint and led the younger children toward the barn.  
  
“Come on, Florabel.” Emma took the girls by their hands to lead them away. “Let’s go git some punch.”  
  
Before she moved, Slaid dashed from the crowd with a hoarse cry. Hopping the fence, he clubbed a rabbit to death right in front of Florabel and Lizzy. There was a moment of confusion as other teen boys and young men, thinking it was time to do their job, also jumped the fence and began beating the rabbits to death.  
  
“Whoa, not yet fellers! Let’s git them toddlin’ kiddies to the barn first!” The man with the megaphone tried to stop the slaughter, but it was too late.  
  
The girls screamed as Slaid continued to club the rabbit long past the point of death, blood spattering his face and overalls. Dean scooped up both girls and ran to the barn. Other shocked parents did the same. The bleating of the children was soon drowned out by the piercing, shrieks of dying rabbits.  
  
Once out of earshot of the ongoing slaughter, Dean turned to Emma. “I’m gonna kill him.” Emma reached out to comfort Florabel.  
  
“I didn’t know they was gonna kill ‘em!” The little girl sobbed into Dean’s shirt.  
  
“Come on, now, Florabel.” Emma met Dean’s eye and shook her head. “All them rabbits is pests. You’s old enough to know they cain’t stay. An’ they’s gonna feed a lot of starvin’ pigs, now. Don’t fuss so hard.” She pried Florabel away from Dean and set her on the ground. “You an’ Lizzy go git yourselves some punch now. It’ll be all right.”  
  
The two girls hugged each other and walked toward the punch-bowl snuffling as they went. Dean looked at Emma in shock, but Emma took a pragmatic stance. “They’ll be fine, Dean. They’s farm girls. They ain’t too young to learn the difference between pets and food.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter when you have an evil dick deliberately trying to frighten them.”  
  
“I know.” Emma nodded, ceding the point. “Slaid’s so dumb I don’t think he has nothin’ under his hat but hair. My God, I don’t know what he was a-thinkin’.”  
  
Dean knew exactly what Slaid was thinking. And he didn’t know if he’d make it through the weekend without killing the sadistic sonofabitch.

* *

“Sorry.” He stepped on Emma’s foot again. The sleepless night spent waiting for Slaid, the disastrous rabbit drive, plus keeping an eye on two hyperactive little girls had caught up with him, and his valiant attempts to _keep the square_ had been a miserable failure. He’d flailed more than he’d danced.  
  
He did it again. “Damn, I’m sorry Em.” Emma kept encouraging him, though, bruised trooper that she was. Dean craned his neck, making sure Florabel and Lizzy were still dancing together not far away. There’d been no sign of Slaid since the kerfuffle at the jackrabbit drive. While Dean hoped the farmhand’s little stunt had gotten him tossed out, he remained on high alert.  
  
“The other way, Dean.” Emma laughed as he slammed into her, having taken a wrong turn. He corrected course, spinning the other way and ran into another poor woman.  
  
“Sorry! Sorry!” Dean winced as the woman limped away from him.  
  
Emma grabbed his hand, steering him from the square. “Let’s take a breather.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I don’t know about you, but I’m so thirsty I cain’t think straight.” She led him to the punch bowl and poured them both a cup.  
  
“God, I suck at this.” Dean leaned against the table, swallowing the punch in two gulps.  
  
Emma brushed a sweaty tuft of hair off his forehead. “Don’t matter none, Dean. I’m havin’ fun.” She leaned against the table with him and watched the dancers. “Red always played with the band, so I ain’t never danced much mys—”  
  
“Why Emma Livingston, you didn’t tell me this sweet boy was yours!” Dean heard a vaguely familiar voice. Glancing up, he noticed it belonged to the buxom woman from the store where he’d purchased Florabel’s gifts the day before.  
  
“Hello Jane.” Emma greeted the woman with a strained smile. “Jane this is Dean. Dean, this is Jane Coulter.”  
  
“Oh my, we don’t need no introductions, sweetheart. We already met, ain’t that right, handsome?” She bounced on her hip and cooed, giving him a naughty laugh and a slap, as though they were sharing a private joke. Emma’s eyebrows nearly flew off her forehead.  
  
Dean offered her an awkward smile, shrugging. “We met at the store yesterday when I was there.”  
  
“Oh my, yes indeed.” The woman sauntered closer, a lascivious gleam in her eye. “And what a flirt this boy of yours is, I might add.” She tittered until she snorted.  
  
Dean opened his mouth in surprise and coughed out a lungful of air. He turned to Emma to deny it, but she just rolled her eyes, letting him know she knew Jane was exaggerating.  
  
“I cain’t imagine Dean being anything but a perfect gentleman,” Emma said. “Course it ain’t easy when folks is throwin’ themselves at him.” Before Jane could do anything but gasp in offense, Dean stiffened.  
  
“Florabel.” He interrupted the women’s cat-fight. “I can’t see her. She was right there.” He crossed the barn toward where the girls had been dancing. They were now nowhere in sight.  
  
“She cain’t be far.” Emma followed him. “Don’t worry so, Dean.” But Dean wasn’t having it. He called her name with no regard to volume, his eyes darting about the barn in a panic.  
  
“Florabel!”  
  
The little girl waved from the musician’s platform where she and Lizzy had wandered and ran back to the adults. “We’s right here!”  
  
Dean bent down. “Don’t run off like that,” he said. “Stay where I can see you, okay?” He looked at her and silently communicated the need to stay close with Slaid in the vicinity.  
  
“I will, Pally. I’m sorry.” She bobbed her head, understanding him. “I was just sayin’ howdy to Papa’s old friends.”  
  
“All right.” He grudgingly released her back into Lizzy’s care.  
  
Florabel signaled to the fiddler who winked and gave her a thumbs-up. He gathered the other musicians and began a slow ballad, breaking up the squares as people paired off. Florabel assessed the situation and set to work.  
  
“You ‘n Mama need to dance this one.” She pushed the two together. “It ain’t even a square dance. You can just hold her tight and dance nice and slow.” She pointed to the dance floor. “That a-way you won’t step on her feet.”  
  
“Don’t be so sure.” Dean laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Want to risk it, Em?”  
  
“I believe I can manage one more, Mr. Hetfield. I don’t think I need steel-toed boots just yet.” Walking to the dance floor, she placed her hand on his scarred shoulder, while he settled his hand on her waist, drawing her in.  
  
Dean glanced at Florabel who waved at him. She whispered something to Lizzy that set the two of them giggling like mad. Dean rolled his eyes at, shaking his head. Despite Florabel’s transparent attempts at matchmaking, despite his hyper vigilance, Dean found himself drawn to Emma as she smiled at him.  
  
Emma’s blue eyes caught the reflection of the lanterns strung from the rafters, filling her pupils with a cluster of glistening sparks. He gazed at her lovely face, somewhat pared and pinched by drought and grief, but still beautiful. Admiring the small patch of freckles on her nose and her smooth skin, his eyes lowered, moving past her sinuous neck, roving over her clavicle and coming to rest where her fluttering heart gave away her nervous excitement.  
  
And there it was, he thought; this was the beat of Emma’s return to life. This was her moment of choice, her daring to hope again. Dean wanted to kiss her, wanted to put everything aside and lose himself in her open warmth. He’d been so preoccupied for the past two months, first with his injury, then with Sam. Now that both of those intrusions were out of the way, now that Sam was no longer pulling at him— _and he wasn’t_ , Dean reminded himself—now that he had to worry only about Slaid, he would soon be free to relax.  
  
Once he had taken care of Slaid, the first thing he intended to do was to spend more time getting to know the woman who’d brought him back from the brink of death. And he wanted to know her. He sincerely did. His head bent toward hers, almost of its own volition. She responded, tilting her head to meet his, when Dean suddenly felt an intrusive tap on his shoulder, yanking him back to reality. He spun around to find Slaid standing there.  
  
Dean went rigid, striving to keep his temper. He took a protective step in front of Emma. “What?” He spat the word at Slaid.  
  
Slaid cleared his throat and nudged his chin, indicating his intent to cut in. “Do you mind?” he said with feigned politeness.  
  
“You freakin’ kidding me?” Dean glared at the man. “I don’t think so, pal.” He turned his back on the farmhand.  
  
Slaid pressed, tapping his shoulder again. “Maybe you should let the lady decide.” He put his hand on Emma’s sleeve.  
  
Dean deferred to Emma, her eyes relaying her unease and aversion. He turned back to Slaid. “She doesn’t want to dance. So, get your goddamned hands off her.”  
  
Slaid smiled, playing his hand with seeming a cool head. “You want to make a scene, Devil Fighter? Let everyone see what you really are?”  
  
His game faltered, however, as his placid charm gave way to violent anger, when Emma tried to pull away. His demeanor changed in an instant and he yanked at Emma’s arm, loudly tearing her sleeve and making her cry out in surprise and pain. Several nearby dancers gasped at the brutality of it, but before anyone could wrench Slaid away, Dean had him by the throat. Barreling through the scattering crowd, squeezing the farmhand, Dean pushed him through the open barn door and into the wall of an adjacent shed.  
  
Slaid squirmed, breathing hard, his face wheyish and sweating.  
  
“Don’t you fucking move.” Dean flattened him against the wall, coming within an inch of his face. He kept his voice low as people ran up, drawn by the commotion. “Don’t you ever touch them. I know what you are, you dick. I know what you did to Florabel. And I’ve seen your little shop of horrors under the barn, you miserable, sadistic fuck.”  
  
Slaid smiled up at him, all bravado and bluster. “I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
“If you ever lay another finger on either of them, it’ll be the last thing you do. Do got me?”  
  
Slaid grinned, dropping his charade. He pressed his lips against Dean’s ear. “So, you want the little whore for your own?” His breath came hot and foul. “Of course you do. But you’ll always know I fucked her first.” He licked his lips. “And, Mmm, the sounds she made—the screams. They were—”  
  
Dean heard the satisfying crunch of Slaid’s nose as it caved beneath his fist, a rope of blood whipping out and spattering the shed as Slaid’s head snapped around. Several men jumped in, separating the two, even as Dean fought to land another punch.  
  
“Ho there, Dean!” Dex Osteen shouted, a hand on Dean’s chest as he pushed him back. “Easy there, hero. You taught him a lesson. Let’s let him live long enough to put it to good use, eh?” The young man clapped Dean on the shoulder, trying to get him to stand down. Other boys came running forward, spoiling for some action.  
  
Charlie Haffner hoisted Slaid to his feet and pushed him away, getting more distance between the two rivals. “Move on, Slaid. Ain’t no call to be rough with a woman, you damn fool. You got what was comin’ to you, now git on out’a here.”  
  
Slaid sucked in several breaths and cupped his nose. When he saw that the crowd stood behind Dean, he shrugged. “It was an accident. The stranger has always been against me. I’ve done nothing.”  
  
“Like hell you haven’t,” Dex said. “Go on, now. The dance is over for you, tonight.”  
  
Slaid daubed at the blood running from his nose, smearing it on his cheek and flicking it from his fingers.  
  
He addressed the crowd. “Devil Fighter has you all fooled.” Noticing Florabel, he tossed her a seedy smile. “See you at home, little one.” He stepped back as Dean fought against the boys holding him. Turning to the crowd, he made a flamboyant bow before walking off.  
  
Emma pushed her way through the crowd, her face twisted with horror and worry. “Florabel.” Her voice trembled. “Go git our things. I think it’s time we left.”  
  
“But Mama!”  
  
“You mind me, now, Florabel!” She stopped short, taking a moment to collect herself. “It’s gittin’ late and we have a big day tomorrow.” She steadied her voice this time. “Say goodbye to Lizzy.” The little girl trudged off to do as her mother said.  
  
The tension started to ebb. Charlie slapped Dean on the back. “You done right, Dean. Ain’t no way to treat a lady.”  
  
“I’d a’done the same thing.” Ed Haffner agreed.  
  
Dex burst out laughing. “Lord alive, Dean. ‘Mind me to never git on your bad side. Hot damn!”  
  
A stern throat-clearing from Emma brought the men to their senses.  
  
“Sorry Mrs. Livingston.” Dex tipped his hat to her sheepishly.  
  
Dean stood still as she approached, expecting the worst, swallowing nervously. Emma stopped in front of him and was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke at last, there was a sparkle in her eye.  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Hetfield.” She gave him a quick pat on his arm. “That was very chivalrous of you.” The crowd gathered around gabbling and giggling, egging them on.  
  
“That weren’t no proper ‘thank-you,’ Emma.” Pauline chuckled from behind her husband. Several other people hooted and snickered in agreement.  
  
Florabel pushed her way between the legs and skirts of the onlookers, lugging the basket. She stopped short when she saw Dean and Emma standing together. Emma shook her head, eyes dancing as she looked at Dean. She kissed his cheek and offered a cautious hug that grew warmer as he returned it. The crowd erupted like confetti popping at midnight, showering them with sparkly whoops of approval.  
  
Florabel’s mouth opened in a perfect full-moon of stunned delight, and she ran to them, hugging their legs. “This is the most perfectest day ever!”

* *

 _February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“What kind of spell?” Sam stood over Bobby who hunted and pecked at the keyboard.  
  
“A retrieval spell. It might work, but it’s gonna take a whole lot’a things going just right. We need to provoke the ghosts into summoning the elemental. We gotta hope they struggle against each other and create another portal. Once the doorway is open we trap the elemental and hold it in place—perform the retrieval spell, then banish the elemental once we have Dean back. As for the spirits, well, we’ll have to deal with them once this is all over. For now, we need them.”  
  
“And you an’ what army is gonna pull this off?” Ellen said.  
  
Bobby shrugged. “We need a couple people to hold off the spirits once the portal is open and another to perform the rituals. The rest is just us not gettin’ dead. And we’ve all had our practice at that.”  
  
Sam fingered the amulet hanging around his neck. “When do we do this?”  
  
“We’re gonna need some supplies.” Bobby grabbed a piece of paper and to make a list. “We also need to get them to stop construction work. We’ll need you to go in, perform your OSHA magic and convince that foreman to shut down until further notice. We want Dean back, but we also have to make sure these folks don’t get hurt in the meantime.”  
  
Ellen watched Sam wince and grip his side. “You feelin’ up to this, sweetie?”  
  
Sam used his arm to support his ribs as he walked toward the door. “I could be on life support and I’d be up for this. I’m not leaving Dean out there. I’m getting him back. Tonight. That’s all there is to it.”  
  
Ellen raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, okay, that was probably one of my dumber questions.”  
  
“All right.” Bobby grabbed his keys and headed for the door. “Let’s get this thing done. Time’s a wastin’.”

* *

 _April 13, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
A glum Lizzy Crawford sat on the lip of the stage, idly watching the fiddlers play. The dance floor had long ago thinned. The little girl hopped off the riser and ran to the doorway where her mother chatted with a couple of old ladies.  
  
She tugged at her dress. “Mama, I’m bored.”  
  
Pauline caressed her daughter’s hair. “Ain’t the same without Florabel, huh?”  
  
“There ain’t nothin’ to do,” the child said with a cavernous yawn.  
  
“Well, it’s way past your bedtime.” She hugged her daughter to her. “Why don’t you go on to the house and git yourself ready for bed, and I’ll be along in few minutes to tuck you in.”  
  
“But I ain’t even the least bit tired.” Lizzy blinked slowly.  
  
“Looks to me like either your lips is fibbin’ or your eyes is. I’m thinkin’ it’s your lips,” Pauline said. “You go on and git to bed. Mama will be up in a few minutes. I just want to see a few more folks off. It’s been a big day and we’s all tuckered, so I won’t be long.” She brushed a kiss against her child’s nose and patted her bottom, sending her on her way.  
  
“Night Mama.” Lizzy skipped off toward the farmhouse.  
  
It had been a thrilling night for her, getting to spend time with Florabel and meeting her new papa. The last time they’d seen each other had been at little Henry’s funeral. It was nice to see her smile and laugh again. Maybe Florabel’s new papa would let her come back to school soon.  
  
She hummed to herself as she reached the backdoor of the quiet farmhouse. But before she could close the door behind her, a dark figure grabbed her and dragged her back, slithering a hand over her mouth and holding her tighter than she’d ever been held before. Terrified, she looked up and saw the Livingston’s farmhand smile at her. Seeing his bloody face, she screamed, but his hand muffled the sound and her mama didn’t hear her. She sunk her teeth into his fleshy palm, but the man only held her tighter. He lifted her in his arms, bringing her face close to his.  
  
“What a beautiful child.” The man whispered into her ear. “Such pretty dark, hair.” He pressed his lips against her shivering cheek and pinched her nose so tight that she couldn’t breathe. “Florabel loves you so.”  
  
Lizzy screamed and screamed beneath his hand, fighting with all her might. She cried for her mama and tried to get away from the monster, but he kept squeezing and hurting her until…until the hurting stopped.

**

Out among the dust dunes on the prairie, far away from the people, the houses and barns, Slaid rocked the child in his arms, though she’d long since ceased her struggles. He’d wanted the Devil Fighter, but there’d never been a good opportunity with the women and the old man constantly around him. Even the townsfolk now protected him.  
  
It was time for the _Ördög_ Fighter to pay for stealing his family. With this gift, Slaid had earned the Hala’s blessing. Its power pulsed within him. Even as he sat holding his little sacrifice, his fingers pulsed and sparkled with more energy than he could contain. Exquisite blue veins and deltas of light ran up and down his arms and legs. He focused the energy on the Hala, bending his will toward it, demanding action.  
  
And far, far away, hundreds of miles to the north, the wandering Hala manifested itself, accepting the offering and answering the call. It responded by kicking up a few grains of dust as it rushed toward its new master.


	12. Better World A-Comin'

__

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“Oh Mama.” Florabel’s eyes widened with awe. “You’s so beautiful!”  
  
Emma blushed with meek delight. Florabel watched from the bed as her mother sat at the dresser, getting ready for their big day.  
  
“I ain’t never seen your cheeks so shiny before. You look happy, Mama.”  
  
Emma pumped a bottle of perfume and leaned into the spray. “C’mere baby girl.” She smiled and squeezed another pump in Florabel’s direction, watching the mist fall on the little girl, her chest thrown out, arms spread wide. “There, we both smell like roses.” Setting the precious bottle on the dresser, she picked up the seldom-used tube of lipstick and applied a light coat to her lips. Daubing some on her fingers, she rubbed a tiny amount on her cheeks, smiling at the results.  
  
Florabel hopped off the bed and leaned against her, her voice breathy with pride. “You look just like a movie-star, Mama.” The two of them touched foreheads and their smiles met in a kiss. Emma spread the shared lipstick over her daughter’s lips, and they admired the results in the mirror, striking movie-star poses and giggling like schoolgirls.  
  
“Now we both do.” Emma tickled her.  
  
She took the clips from her hair and smoothed the stylish finger waves at the top of her head then plaited her braid into a loose psyche’s knot. “There.” Emma assessed herself, primping in the mirror. She felt alive, eyes twinkling with anticipation and hope for the first time in years.  
  
“Pally won’t be able to look at nothin’ but your face all day, Mama.”  
  
Emma laughed. “Mmm, I think other things will have his attention,” she said, mysteriously. “Now, c’mere Birthday-girl.” Emma knelt by her hope-chest, hinges creaking as she opened it and lifted out the precious item. Florabel’s stunned eyes popped wide.  
  
“This is my present to you, Florabel. I hope you like it.” Emma held up a dress, displaying it for her little girl.  
  
Florabel’s jaw worked soundlessly. She petted the white dress, lace edging the embroidered collar, wide pleats falling from the shoulders with mother-of-pearl buttons running down the front.  
  
“Mama! A fairy queen dress!” Her voice hitched and she went mute again. Her brows pinched. “But…how?”  
  
“Do you like it?” Emma asked, though she could see the answer all over her daughter’s face. “I thought you needed to have something pretty for special days.” She unhooked her daughter’s overalls.  
  
“Wherever did you git it, Mama?” Florabel asked, astounded. “Only rich people has things this beautiful. Not even Lizzy!”  
  
“I made it from my wedding-dress,” Emma said. “It weren’t doin’ nobody any good sitting in my hope-chest.” She drew the dress over Florabel’s head and situated it on her. “My goodness, you look like a princess. Here,” she said, reaching for a pair of new socks with lace sewn at the ends, “I polished your shoes for you last night, too. Now you’s all set for the picnic.”  
  
Tears rimmed Florabel’s eyes. “I cain’t thank you proper Mama. There ain’t words.”  
  
Emma hugged her daughter. “Don’t need no words, baby girl. You’s welcome, my love.” She wrapped her arms around Florabel, soaking herself in the warmth of her daughter’s embrace, releasing her before she lost her motherly composure. Swallowing the lump of love in her throat, she smoothed her hand over the child’s shining cheeks.  
  
“Let’s git you all fixed up.” Patting the seat, she settled Florabel and began brushing her hair. “Your Pally ain’t gonna know what to do with hisself when he sees you.” She winked at the girl.  
  
Florabel sat lost in thought as she watched her mother fix her hair. “Did you ever think we was gonna be happy agin?” she asked at last.  
  
Emma straightened the collar of Florabel’s new dress and pressed a kiss to her ear. “I didn’t.” She shook her head.  
  
“Me neither.” Florabel watched the two of them in the mirror. “I’m mighty glad we was wrong.”

* *

Dean flexed his bruised knuckles a few times to ease the stiffness. They hurt like a bitch, but nothing was broken. He went through his internal to-do list, making sure he’d done all of Florabel’s chores for her. Chickens fed, eggs collected—check. Water from well, cow milked—check. Other than the girls’ bedrooms, he’d dusted the whole house during his sleepless night. He could do Florabel’s room, but Emma’s was still off limits since she and the kiddo were having some kind of mother/daughter bonding experience in there. He’d heard them giggling earlier and got the hell out of there as quick as he could. He’d needed to grab Florabel’s presents from the barn anyway.  
  
He stretched his neck. Watching for Slaid two nights in a row had left him numb, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep it up. He was going to have to sleep sometime. Slaid hadn’t returned, but Dean assumed it was too much to hope that he never would. Even after last night, he expected it would take considerable effort to convince Emma to evict the farmhand—unless he told her what he’d done to Florabel. He didn’t want to break the child’s trust, but he had no right to keep it from Emma, either. He sighed. He needed to tell her after the weekend. Right now, his sleep-deprived brain couldn’t process properly. Maybe he could catch a short nap this afternoon. He squinted at the sun, guessing it wasn’t yet mid-morning.  
  
The sun. It shone down from a piercing blue sky—the first such day Dean recalled seeing. There’d been vague flashes of other days in other times, but, as always, they weren’t true memories, only disconnected images. But this day? This was something special. The sunlight had warmth to it, and the day promised to nudge 80 degrees by the feel of it. The windmill cranked slowly, the breeze barely stirring it. It was a perfect spring day.  
  
Dean watched the windmill rotate and wondered if perhaps he and Jeb could rig a way to irrigate a field or two. It would be a huge undertaking, but he had the time, now. There wasn’t anything preventing him from staying. More than that, though, he was tired of feeling alienated and alone. He wasn’t sure if that was due to Sam’s betrayal or his inability to remember his past. Maybe he’d always been isolated from people. He didn’t know. In any case, he didn’t want to be cut off from life anymore. He _wanted_ to be here—wanted roots. He wanted to make plans for the future, and giving the girls a crop would be a good start.  
  
They all needed better food. They couldn’t subsist solely on jackrabbits for much longer. Dean had noticed how small Florabel was compared to the other children at the dance. He was worried about her. Her friend, Lizzy, towered over her and had a good fifteen-twenty pounds on her, and they were the same age.  
  
Walking past the windmill, he ducked into the barn and retrieved Florabel’s gifts from the loft. The brown bag would have to serve as wrapping paper. He had nothing better. Pausing at the root cellar’s hidden trapdoor, he pulled out the gun to make sure Slaid wasn’t skulking in there. He descended a few rungs, peering inside. The gun in his palm felt comfortable, like it belonged there, and he swept it up, down, and around in effortless, instinctive maneuvers, checking every corner, daring Slaid to be there. Other than the noisome stench, however, the room was empty.  
  
“Dean? You in here, son?” Jeb’s voice startled him from above even as he gagged again.  
  
 _Fuck._ Dean weighed the gun in his hands, disturbed and confused by how much he enjoyed holding it. Pocketing the weapon, he jogged up the ladder.  
  
Jeb turned as Dean surfaced. “There you are. What’re you doin’ down there? They sent me to look for you.”  
  
Dean waved the bag, closing the trapdoor. “Just grabbing Florabel’s presents.” He cleared his throat and made his way toward the barn door.  
  
“The girls is almost ready. I borrowed a camera from Roy Atterbury. He owns the _Boise City News_ and plays a mean saxophone. Been a good friend for years. Told me if’n I git it to him today he’ll develop the picture straight away. Thought it would be a good present for Florabel to have her picture took on her Birthday. C’mon. They’s waitin’.”  
  
“Let’s go, then.” Dean matched strides with the old man.  
  
“So, I hear you was quite the do-right last night.” Jeb grinned. “I was out back with Doc Dawson and the other old timers rollin’ reefer cigarettes and missed all the fun,” he said. “You think Slaid’ll dare show his face back here?”  
  
Dean stopped and gripped Jeb’s shirtsleeve. “That reminds me, Jeb. Listen,” he said, feeling guilty, “I was worried about Slaid coming and causing trouble for the girls last night. I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed your gun—just for protection.”  
  
Jeb’s eyes widened. “I don’t think you’ll be needin’ that, son. It ain’t near come to that.”  
  
“No, I know. I just felt better having it with the girls in the house and Slaid as hot and pissed as he was. I ain’t worried for myself. I just wanted to make sure they were safe.”  
  
Jeb stood there a moment, watching him with worried concern. “Just don’t be pointin’ it at no one, not even Slaid, Dean. He wouldn’t really hurt the girls.”  
  
“Tell that to Emma.”  
  
The older man ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I hear you.” He glanced toward the house. “Just be careful, Dean.”  
  
“I will.” Dean heard the screen door creak open and watched Emma and Florabel emerge from the house. “C’mon. Let’s go take Florabel’s picture.”  
  
The two men jogged to the house, then stopped short. “Land sakes.” Jeb whistled, long and loud. “Look at the two a’you! First they’s this wing-dinger of a day and now it just got a whole lot brighter. The both of yous is all sparkles and pixie dust!”  
  
Florabel swayed shyly. Her white dress fell to her knees, lace frills everywhere, pearly buttons and small flowers embroidered on the collar. Dean’d watched Emma work on it every night for weeks. The little girl’s gold hair cascaded over her shoulders, collected in a big, floppy bow high on her head. Even her socks had lace on the edges. Emma stood beside her, flushing, her fair hair rippling in a series of soft waves in front, the rest pinned in the back, natural, soft curls kissing her neck. Her pale peach-pink net dress with embroidered flowers and leaves, dripped in layers down to her mid-calf.  
  
But it wasn’t their lace frills, giant bows or shiny hair that struck Dean. It was the sunshine hitting their glowing faces. It was the way their eyes shone at him, their smiles expectant and shy and full of promise.  
  
Dean forced his words around a lump in his throat. “You two are the prettiest things I’ve ever seen in my life.” And he meant it.  
  
Florabel leapt off the stairs and into his arms. “But you ain’t seen a lot that you remember.”  
  
“I wouldn’t forget seeing something so beautiful, that’s a fact.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. “So I just ain’t never seen it.” He caught Emma’s sparkling eye as she descended the stairs, and he had to fight the desire to pull her in, too. “You both look gorgeous.” He smiled and set Florabel on the ground.  
  
“All right, all right,” Jeb coughed, “let’s git a picture of this momentous occasion.” Jeb situated the tripod where he wanted it. “Florabel, you and your mama stand in front of the house, now.” Dean moved behind the camera with Jeb, watching him set up the shot.  
  
“Pally needs to be in it, too!” Florabel waved him over.  
  
“Uh-huh…” Dean paced away. “This needs to be with you ‘n your mama.”  
  
Both girls scoffed at that, beckoning him to join them.  
  
“Come on, Dean. You don’t want to upset the Birthday girl,” Emma said.  
  
“Ugh. I ain’t wearin’ anything but dirty overalls.” His limbs flopped in sluggish protest as Florabel dragged him toward the porch.  
  
“We don’t care, Pally. You’s family. I want our pictures tooken together.” The three of them got into position; Dean standing with one arm around Emma’s waist, the other on Florabel’s shoulder as she stood in front of the adults.  
  
“Ain’t you all so handsome,” Jeb said. “Now say ‘cheese’ and hold it!” He took the photo and clapped his hands. “There! Now I’ll git this to Roy and when I git back tonight it should be all done.”  
  
“Ain’t you comin’ on our picnic, Old Jeb?” Florabel asked as she ran up to inspect the camera.  
  
“Naw, I reckon I’ll let you three have a day to yourselfs. I’m headin’ off to church and then Hazel Johnson asked me to Palm Sunday dinner.” He smiled a cheeky, self-satisfied smile.  
  
“Dinner with a lady? Jeb, you sly dog.” Dean thumped the older man’s arm, grinning.  
  
Jeb threw his head back and cackled. “You ain’t the only one who has a way with the ladies.” He returned the thump. “I do believe all these bright smiles is contagious. And on a day like today, you cain’t do nothin’ but expect the best. Things is definitely lookin’ up!”

* *

 _February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Sam knocked on the trailer door. “Gerry, it’s Sam Ulrich. I need to talk to you a moment.”  
  
Gerry opened the door and eyed Sam up and down. “Good.” He stepped away so Sam could enter. “I need to talk to you, too.”  
  
Gerry led Sam to his desk and offered him a seat. He gave Sam a stiff nod. “So, Mr. Ulrich, what can I do for you?”  
  
Sam shifted in his chair. “I’ve talked to my superiors. And I’ve been given instructions to close the site until we finish our investigation.”  
  
“S’at a fact?” Gerry drawled, unconcerned. “And where’s the ‘we’? Your partner still ain’t showed up?”  
  
Sam twitched and fiddled with the amulet. “Um, not yet, but headquarters will be sending some other agents, soon. I’ll need you to cease operations until we’re finished.”  
  
“I see,” Gerry said. “So, I take it you’ll be wanting this back?” He reached down and slammed the sawed-off on his desk. “You left this last time you was here.” Sam stiffened, stunned into silence, but Gerry continued. “Y’know, I thought it mighty odd OSHA investigators would carry weapons. So, when we found this in the mess you boys left behind, I decided to give OSHA a call this morning.” Sam swallowed. “An’ don’t it beat all, but they never heard of Sam Ulrich or Dean Hetfield.”  
  
Sam sat up. “I can explain.”  
  
“Son, you think I just fell off the turnip-truck, do you? You think because we’re a small community we’re hayseed idiots, too? So what kind of scam are you running?” He squinted at Sam.  
  
“Just…just hear me out.” Sam rose. “I know it sounds bad, but you’ve got to believe me. My brother and I came here to try and help you.”  
  
“Your _brother_? So the other ‘agent’ is your brother?” Gerry rolled his eyes. “Well that explains some of it.”  
  
“He is.” Sam hesitated, trying to find the right words to get the contractor on his side. “And he’s missing. We were investigating the activity at the site and something happened. Gerry, I’m not trying to scam you. But you have a dangerous situation here, and until we figure it out, no one is safe.”  
  
“Investigating _activity_? What the hell do you mean by that?”  
  
Sam stammered a moment, hoping to hell the truth would work. “Gerry, you have a serious problem. You’ve got a couple of ghosts that are gonna keep hurting people if ….”  
  
Gerry choked on his incredulity. “You kidding me, boy? A ghost? Jesus Christ, you spent too much time with Matt didn’t ya?”  
  
“It’s true.” Sam tried to persuade the man. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve got to believe me. We came here because my brother and I deal with this kind of thing regularly. I’m telling you, Gerry, if you don’t shut this site down other people could get hurt or killed.”  
  
“Oh son, you need to sell this shit to the SciFi Channel, not me.” Gerry smirked at Sam. “They might buy it. Add in a few man-eating ants, while you’re at it. They’d snatch it right up. That way you wouldn’t have to try and scam innocent folks,” he said. “We done right by you two, and this is how you treat us? If this is how things work in the big cities, then I’m glad I ain’t a part of one. We may be simple here, but we ain’t thievin’, scammin’, looney-toon dipshit assholes.” Gerry took the gun and removed the shells. “Now you get your ass off my site. If I see you around here again, I’m callin’ the Sheriff.”  
  
“Gerry, listen to me, please.” Sam tried one more time, knowing it was futile. The young hunter caught the gun Gerry tossed to him.  
  
“I’ve heard more ‘n enough, son. You go drag your brother out’a whatever hole he’s lurkin’ in and you get yourselves out of our town. I don’t want to see you around here again, we clear?” Gerry opened the trailer door, motioning for him to leave.  
  
Sam lingered briefly at the doorway, trying to think of some other avenue or tactic that would make a difference. But Gerry’s face told Sam it was over. He and the other hunters would have to find a way around the workers. Sam sighed and nodded as he left.  
  
“Freaks!” Gerry spat his parting shot and slammed the trailer door.  
  
Sam sighed. “That went well.”

* *

 _April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“What is this place?” Dean asked.  
  
They’d walked a good mile north of the house and settled next to a trench or old, dry creek bed. The sun warmed him enough to make him sorry he’d worn his union suit, and he scratched at a bead of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. Sunshine dazzled the silica in the dust, making the ground glitter. However, the contrast between the brilliant sky and the vapid landscape, Technicolor vs. monochrome, bewildered Dean’s sleepy brain. The clashing views gave him a vague sense of vertigo. He knuckled his eyes and tried to focus.  
  
Emma surveyed the land, her face coursing with memories. “I used to come here as a girl, but the creek only ever ran part of the year, even back then. There ain’t been so much as a dribble in the past four or five years.” She spread a blanket on the ground. “Used to flow into the Cimarron River north a ways. I’d always come here and hunt lizards and cool off in the summer. Maybe one day it’ll run agin. If’n we could only git some rain.” She opened the basket and surprised them with fried chicken. “I wish you both could’a seen this place the way it used to be. It don’t seem like the same world.”  
  
“It’s still a good place for a picnic.” Florabel jumped on her knees and gave the food a melodramatic sniff. Emma pulled out the Birthday cake she made. Florabel’s eyes went feral. “Mama! A cake! Oh boy!” She clapped her hands.  
  
“That ain’t all.” Dean sat with them. “I got you a little somethin’.” He showed her the brown paper bag, lifting out the striped bags of candy. “One for each of you.” Florabel’s high-pitched squeal made his tired head hurt, but he laughed anyway. Emma’s eyes went round and wide in surprise as he handed her a bag of her own.  
  
“Pally! Holy moley! Candy! This is the best day ever. Ever, ever, ever, ever, _EVER_!” She dove her hand into the bag, but Emma stopped her.  
  
“Lunch first, baby girl.” She wagged her finger her. “Then you can have one piece of candy. That a-way you can have some each day and it will be more special.” Florabel sniffed mournfully at the bag of chocolates. She didn’t protest, though.  
  
“And…” Dean continued, “I also got you this. Sorry. I didn’t have no proper wrappers.” He squished the bag around the small doctor’s kit trying to make it look more present-like.  
  
She held the gift in her hands, huffing and puffing frantically. “Oh boy, oh boy!” She opened it and pulled out the small satchel, studying it with curious excitement, trying to figure out what it was.  
  
Dean laughed. “It’s a doctor’s kit.” He showed her the toy stethoscope and thermometer. “See? Now you can practice, so when you go to medical school you’ll be leaps ahead of everyone else.”  
  
Florabel stared at him. “You think I can? Even though only boys is doctors?”  
  
“Who says?”  
  
“Old Jeb says there ain’t no such thing as a girl doctor.”  
  
“Well it ain’t against the law, is it?”  
  
“I don’t think so.” Florabel ran her fingers over the leather kit.  
  
“Well then, you can go be a doctor if that’s what you want.” He smoothed the bow on her head. “Don’t ever let folks tell you otherwise. Here, let me see it a sec.” He opened the bag. “Yeah, I forgot these.” He grabbed the netted sack of marbles. “Now we can have double matches.”  
  
Florabel’s face crumpled with raw emotion. She threw herself into his arms and held on for dear life. “I love you, Pally.” She burrowed into his neck. “I cain’t believe it. Thank you so much. I ain’t never been so happy, ever.” Dean caught Emma’s glistening eye as he held Florabel. Emma swallowed and nodded her silent thanks.  
  
Dean succumbed to the hug and held on tight. “Me neither, Florabel.”  
  
“All right you two. Break it up.” Emma cleared her throat and dusted off her hands. “This food ain’t gonna eat itself.”  
  
After lunch, Florabel insisted Dean submit to his first official check-up. Between the warmth of the sun, the gentle breeze, the food, sweets and pure exhaustion, Dean fell fast asleep. Florabel had spent so long examining him, listening to his heart and checking his temperature that he drifted off without knowing it. He woke to Florabel prying his eyelid open.  
  
“You cain’t sleep on my Birthday, Pally!” her big lips said to his eyeball. “You was startin’ to snore!”  
  
“Ugh.” He sat up, scratching his head and yawning. “I’m blaming the candy and cake.” He shook himself awake, but inside he ached to roll over and go back to sleep. He shoved the thought aside, though, when Florabel begged him and Emma to explore the dry creek-bed with her.  
  
After exploring and playing several games of tag and Miss Mary Mack, Emma declared it time to walk back to the house around four o’clock, but Florabel was not ready for the day to be over, yet.  
  
“Mama, cain’t I stay here for a little while longer? I ain’t never seen the sun so big before.” She raised an authoritative forefinger. “Besides, you ‘n Pally should go on an’ have a good talk together. Ain’t that right, Pally? Don’t you want to give me the present I want the most?”  
  
“Florabel…”  
  
“What’s all this? Emma raised a suspicious brow as she folded the blanket. “You two keepin’ secrets?”  
  
“No Mama,” Florabel said. “I just reckon you two ain’t spent much time together. Me an’ Pally play marbles all the time.” She scraped her foot in the dust, swaying. “I think it’s good for grownups to—you know—talk and whatnot.”  
  
“Mmm hmm.” Emma cocked her head at Florabel then looked to the sun, considering. She pointed to the sky. “When the sun gits there, you come on in.” She picked up the picnic basket. “And don’t you dare git that dress dirty.”  
  
“I won’t, Mama.” She ran to Dean and motioned for him to bend down to her. “She likes you, Pally,” she whispered. “Don’t be scared none! She won’t be mad if’n y’kiss her…” She released him but then tugged him back down, remembering to add, “…On the _lips_ this time. Cheeks don’t count, Pally! It’s gotta be the _lips_!” Dean shook his head and poked her in the nose.  
  
“More secrets?” Emma feigned offense. “I feel left out!”  
  
“You have a silly daughter.” Grabbing the basket from Emma, he patted Florabel’s head. “Don’t stay out long.”  
  
Florabel cross her fingers on both her hands. “Remember, Pally!”  
  
Dean couldn’t help but chuckle at her, waving her off. He turned and picked his way through the scrub with Emma, heading toward the house. As they walked, Emma plundered her bag of candy, offering Dean a piece and taking one for herself.  
  
He laughed at her. “I thought you told Florabel to make hers last.”  
  
Emma giggled and shrugged. “Are you kidding me? I’ve wanted to put my head in this bag the entire time.” She examined the piece of candy. “I ain’t had candy in years. Thank you for making the day so special for Florabel. And for me. Times has been so hard I forgot what it was like.”  
  
“Forgot what was like?”  
  
She tilted her face to the sun, soaking it in with a contented sigh. “Livin’.”  
  
Dean thought a moment as they walked. “I’m sorry things have been so hard for you two,” he said. “This land has definitely been raked over the coals.”  
  
She swallowed her candy and folded the bag. “I wish you could ‘a seen this land before all this.” Strolling along, she gestured to the landscape. “You know, I was born in that house.” She pointed to the farmhouse in the distance. “My mama died the night I was born, and Papa? Well, he never remarried. I guess the farm became his wife, his passion. And he was good at it, too. This farm grew wheat and barley. So much grain we was swimmin’ in it. And, oh, the fields, Dean! When papa turned that soil, it looked just like chocolate.”  
  
She held up the candy bag, shaking it. “And then he’d plant his seeds. You should’a seen the fields of the blowin’, billowin’ wheat. It was like a golden lake the way it rippled and waved in the wind. There was green prairie grass and flowers everywhere. I used to make daisy-chains and wear them in my hair.” Her face glowed with the memory but then dulled. “It ain’t right Florabel cain’t do that. She’s missin’ out on so much. I don’t know as she’s ever seen daisies for real.” She sighed. “Anyway, my papa built this farm to be something we was so proud of. He hired several farmhands and bought tractors and threshers. And cattle and _horses_. My god, I loved the horses. When I was a teen I would ride and ride.”  
  
“It sounds amazing.” Dean imagined Emma’s hair flying in the wind as she rode through the waist-tall grasses.  
  
She smiled wistfully, her eyes wandering around but not seeing what was really there, lost in her memories. “It was.” She walked over to a lone, bare-limbed tree, its pale roots clinging to the earth like talons. “Now see that?” she said. “See the crow’s nest in that dead tree? It’s entirely made of barbed wire.”  
  
They looked at the nest of tangled wire resting amid dead branches. “There ain’t no vegetation for the birds to use no more, so they make do.” The spark in her eyes faded and they walked onward, pensive and silent. Dean laid his arm around her shoulder and held it there. Emma glanced at his hand and leaned closer as she walked.  
  
Arriving at the farm, they continued to wander around as Emma told him stories from her childhood. They wound up in the barn, climbing the ladder into the hayloft, sitting on bales of hay and admiring their handiwork.  
  
“Then after Red and I got married, Papa was dead set on wiring the house for electricity. That was about the time the market crashed in ’29. We wasn’t scared at first, because we didn’t have no stocks. It was them city folks who was jumpin’ out’a buildings, not us. We didn’t think it meant anything for the folks ‘round here. But then the following harvest we sold our crop for only a fraction of what we’d sold it for the year before.  
  
“Papa, he didn’t rightly know what to make of it. All that work and he didn’t make half of what it was worth. But he weren’t broken over it. Not yet. He figured we’d just make it up the next year. He tore up more land and planted double crops of wheat and barley, figuring since it would only net half, if he planted double and worked double we’d come out all right. Problem was, everyone else was thinkin’ the same thing. So the prairies got tore up more and more from folks tryin’ to just stay afloat. The next harvest sold for even less. The crops started to rot in barns and silos. We couldn’t give the stuff away. Fact is, we’s still eatin’ that wheat to this very day. We trade folks some of the wheat for cornmeal, beans and a little coffee, just to have a change, but we been eatin’ that crop for years now. Dunno what we’d do without it.” She picked a piece of hay out of her hair and twirled it in her fingers.  
  
“So you never got your electricity?” Dean asked.  
  
“Mmm?” Emma twitched, startled from her reverie. “No. Papa started sellin’ livestock and furniture to pay the banks for the equipment and taxes on the farm. Thank god the farm itself was ours, so we don’t owe no bank for it. But we still owed a lot on the equipment. And then in ‘31 it just stopped rainin’. Papa fell ill and died a’worry, I reckon. Doc Dawson says he had an angina an’ he just faded. But I gotta wonder what gave it to him. He was fit and sound until the farm fell apart.” She leaned into the bale.  
  
“When the rains didn’t come, people stopped tryin’ to plant the crops, an’ all that land, all them millions an’ millions of acres that’d been plowed after the crash to try and make ends meet, it all just laid bare, and those winds that always blowed so fierce came like always and kicked up the land and carried it away. Weren’t no grass nor crops tetherin’ it down. Ain’t no tellin’ where it all got to. Newspapers say some of them dusters reached as far off as Chicago and New York City.  
  
“The whole thing became a big, rollin’ mess. Weren’t no means to feed the cows an’ horses. Weren’t no hay left. The horses was sold to pay taxes a few years ago. We hung onto the cattle as long as we could, but they was starvin’ to death. The government finally come ‘round and bought ‘em just to shoot ‘em dead. But at least now I got enough to pay taxes for a year or two. Ain’t no tellin’ how long it’ll take to set things right after it starts raining agin. Even if it were to start rainin’ today, ain’t no way to put a crop in the ground except for my grand-daddy’s ol’, rusty plow. Ain’t even got a horse to pull it.” She closed her eyes, shielding them from the gravity of her hopeless situation. She opened them again, and there was defiance there.  
  
“But folks is tryin’ to hold out, makin’ do the best they can. Those who cain’t, most usually head west an’ try to find work in California an’ Oregon. Though, we hear tell things ain’t any better there. Ain’t enough jobs to go around. Folks who live there is tryin’ to make laws sayin’ you cain’t hire folks from Oklahoma and Kansas. They don’t want us there.”  
  
“Jesus,” Dean said.  
  
Her eyes blazed with a weary fury. “Things is bad. I try to remember what it was like. I try to think of the golden fields and believe those days’ll come agin, but right now we’s eatin’ dust three times a day. I sleep with it every night, I wake up with it between my teeth. It’s in my water—it invades my dreams. I hate it so much I could scream. I hate the wind. I hate that Red and Henry died for no damn good reason.” She stopped herself and blinked, startled at her outburst. “I’m sorry, Dean. I shouldn’t ‘a said all that. I git tired of fightin’ sometimes. I don’t mean to seem like a surly child. I shouldn’t be so weak.”  
  
“Emma, you don’t need to apologize. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you. You ain’t weak. I think you’re incredibly strong to have gotten though the way you have.”  
  
She rubbed her chin, embarrassed. Masking her pain, she stretched and brushed her fingers in the air, scattering her memories like dandelion seeds in the wind. “And what about you, Dean? You think you’s gonna be able to find your friend, Sam?”  
  
Dean shut his eyes and shrugged. “Don’t think so. I ain’t lookin’.”  
  
“You shouldn’t lose hope. It ain’t been that long, Dean. I bet if’n you give it time enough you’ll remember things better, and then you can go find him, maybe?” Her voice was smooth, but there was something in her tone that made Dean wonder if she really meant or wanted that.  
  
Dean joined her on the hay bale, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched. “I remember enough, now. I don’t know, Em. I’m thinkin’ maybe I wasn’t a good person before I got hurt.”  
  
“What utter nonsense.”  
  
“No,” he said. “I mean it. I don’t remember things the way other people do, but I know Sam was my brother, and he…” His voice trailed off.  
  
Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “Your brother? When did you remember that?” she asked, turning on the hay bale to face him.  
  
“The other day.”  
  
“When you was so upset?”  
  
Dean nodded. “But I saw other things, too. Things that make me think I lived a dark, bad life. Every flash I ever get is violent and twisted, Em. And the only thing that ever made any sense at all was Sam. I dunno, it’s weird. I felt him so strongly. So bonded and attached. And then I saw…” He faltered, studying his hands with a sigh.  
  
“Saw what, Dean?” Emma moved closer, lending him her strength.  
  
Dean shrugged and palmed his face. He was so fucking tired. Too tired and too broken to hold back. His eyes met hers and then darted away. He cleared his throat. “I saw him shoot me.” He tapped the scar on his shoulder. “Sam’s the one who done it. I don’t know why, but I saw how much he enjoyed it.”  
  
“My God. Dean…” She rubbed a slow circle on his back.  
  
“So, I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to know who I was. I don’t want find out I done so much wrong that he’d have reason to do that. I don’t want to be the person I think I must ‘a been. I don’t want that life, Em.” He dropped his head in his hands.  
  
Emma shook her head in confusion, pressing her hand against his to get his attention. “I don’t know what you saw, but I’m thinkin’ you ain’t seein’ the whole picture. I ain’t smart, Dean. I married Red in my senior year an’ that was that. I never finished high school. But I know a few things, and I know you’s a good man. I know whatever you done you must ‘a done because there weren’t no other choice or because you had a good reason. You cain’t remember it right now because your fever mixed things up, but I just won’t never believe you done anything to deserve gittin’ shot. It don’t make no sense that your brother would hurt you, but maybe in time you’ll remember things better and see the whole picture instead of just catchin’ a glimpse of the corner.”  
  
“Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t want to remember anymore.” He searched the rafters of the barn. “It’s funny, but I’d rather deal with the dust and the drought than go back to that life. I cain’t…the things I’ve seen, the pictures that play in my head sometimes, Em, you just wouldn’t believe. I don’t want it. I don’t want none of it.”  
  
Emma stared at him, saying nothing for a time. When she spoke, her voice was no more than a whisper. “Then what do you want, Dean?”  
  
Dean took his time to consider the question, but when he spoke there was resolution and conviction behind his words. “I want Florabel,” he said. “I want you.” Emma turned to him, her eyes wide with too many emotions to name. “I wanna help you get the farm up and running, and I wanna put down roots. I don’t think I ever did that before.” He suddenly felt naked and raw, and he cleared his throat, switching gears. “I was thinkin—I was thinkin’ maybe Jeb and I could work to irrigate a field or two, huh? Might be a good summer project.”  
  
“What if’n your brother comes lookin’ for you, even if you ain’t lookin’ for him?”  
  
“I’m pretty sure he ain’t a-lookin’ for me, Em. And I wouldn’t want him to find me if he did. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” They sat in silence for a moment longer.  
  
“I’m so glad to hear that, Dean.”  
  
He watched Emma’s eyes flood with promise and joy. There was no telegraphing, no awkward approach, no thought given even to Florabel’s Birthday wish. Their lips simply locked and mingled, gritty lips connecting in a dusty kiss, each soothing the other’s abrasions while sharing a hope for a better world for them and for Florabel.  
  
Emma’s lips parted, soft and plump with arousal. She watched him through dark eyes, both hungry and profound. Her hand caressed the back of his head, her fingertips barely brushing the nape, sending shivers of warmth through him. Dean experienced his own polar-shift as they melted together, an acknowledgement that he was not merely settling; he was making his own choice. He wanted this life and no other—flesh and blood, not ghostly vestige and residue. He tilted her back until they both lay tangled together in the hay.  
  
When Emma coaxed his hand toward her small breasts, he felt a thrill ripple through her as he feathered his hands over them. Dean smiled when he heard the cow shift and huff as he and Emma lay twined like jigsaw pieces. Emma explored the contours of his chest and back while he unbuttoned her dress, kissing her neck and rubbing his tongue over her bare breasts. His teeth found her nipple, and she bucked against him as he grazed her tender flesh.  
  
Their insistence and need surged, each coated in a light, tangy sweat. The heady, feral scent set Dean off. Fighting with his buttons, he prowled his way up to her mouth, stifling her soft moans with a demanding kiss. This time a blue spark of static electricity sizzled as their lips met.  
  
“Sparks is a-flyin’.” Emma snickered, rolling with the residual tingle until she straddled him.  
  
She continued to work on his buttons as their tongues darted and explored. The cow thumped and mooed plaintively in response. Dean thought he heard the chickens also kicking up a chorus of gossipy clucks in their yard. He smiled against her kiss.  
  
“I think we’s excitin’ the animals,” he said and went back to kissing her, meshing his fingers in her hair that had come unraveled.  
  
Stiffening, Emma cut off any response she intended to make. She rose to her knees and glanced behind her toward the open barn door below, her senses tense and alert.  
  
Dean looked past her, but there was no one in the barn with them, nothing to see. When he leaned up to kiss her again, she distractedly pushed against him.  
  
“Shhh.” She held her hand up, listening to Penny groan in agitation and turn in her stall.  
  
“Penny will keep our secret, Em.” He teased her, but she paid no attention. She sat on her heels, buttoning her dress with hasty fingers.  
  
“Em?”  
  
She cocked her head, still listening. A puff of cool air filtered through the barn. When Dean tried to coax her back, she slithered from his grasp, her sweat-coated skin soapy slick. He levered himself up on his elbows as she descended the ladder without a word.  
  
“Uhm…Em?” Confused, he followed her, buttoning his shirt and latching his overalls as he went.  
  
A lone crow cawed as it flew overhead somewhere. Emma ran past the barn door and froze. When Dean reached her, he noticed the chickens running in mad circles while dozens of jackrabbits scurried through the barnyard, heedless of any peril from humans. Emma stood motionless, eyes fixed on the sky, drawing Dean’s gaze. Flocks of birds dashed to the south, shrieking frantic warnings as they went. Wondering what had the birds on the run, Dean followed the line to the north as a tremendous gust of wind rocked the barn.  
  
Out on the horizon, a colossal, black cloud billowed and roiled like smoke as it devoured the prairie. The storm towered several thousand feet into the sky, barreling directly toward them, performing deranged somersaults and cartwheels along the ground as it came.  
  
“Jesus Christ.” He watched the oncoming cloud. “What the ever loving fuck?”  
  
Emma hands trembled as she held them up, shielding herself from the outer bands of wind that hit them. “Black blizzard,” she said, horror-stricken. “Black blizzard!” she repeated, a wild note of hysteria rising in her voice. The storm could not be more than few miles away, now, Dean figured. It would soon consume their picnic spot.  
  
Emma must have been thinking the same thing. “Oh God, Florabel…” She staggered a few steps, searching the horizon. “Florabel!” Her voice cracked. “ _My baby!_ ” She ran toward the oncoming storm. “ _FLORABEL!_ ”


	13. The Great Dust Storm

__

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Rain fell in cold, angry beads as the hunters hid the Impala behind a huge construction dumpster. It was late, after 2:00am, and the trio geared and ammo’ed up, gathering the materials for the ritual. It was a rather motley assortment, but given what they were attempting, Sam wasn’t too surprised. “Bobby? A mirror, herbs and spray-paint? What else?” Sam shoved the items into his duffel, adding a couple of brass bowls Ellen handed to him.  
  
“Don’t forget the holy water and graveyard dirt.” Bobby tossed in a small box and a flask. “We’ll need blood, too, but I’ll donate that when we get there.”  
  
Ellen loaded one of the sawed-offs and snorted. “Another boring day at the office.”  
  
Bobby reviewed the items, making sure he’d forgotten nothing. “Most of this is for the protective circle. You two are gonna stay inside it until I tell you to move. Once we trap the elemental, I’ve got the retrieval spell ready to go. It should grab Dean from wherever he is on the planet right now. When we’ve got him, you two’ll salt-blast the spirits and I’ll banish the demon. We’ll make a play-date with our vengeful friends’ bones and finish with them later. I wish we could’a gotten the site closed. I think it’ll be even more volatile once we do this, but we’ll get Dean back and then sort out the rest.”  
  
“Like I said,” Ellen quirked an eyebrow, “another boring day,”  
  
“C’mon,” Bobby shouldered his duffel. “Let’s get our boy back.”  
  
Inside the damaged building, the hunters set to work. Bobby painted four banishing sigils, one in each corner and a large circle in the middle of the floor.  
  
“Keep a lookout for our vengeful pal. We don’t want him callin’ the demon until…” He looked at his breath frosting white even as he spoke. His shoulders dropped. “Aw hell.” Grabbing his sawed-off, he fired behind him. “Company’s early.” Sam and Ellen set themselves back to back, watching for its return while Bobby finished his preparations. He sprinkled graveyard dirt inside two different runes painted within the larger circle and set the herb smudges alight in brass bowls. Last, he sprinkled holy water around the edges.  
  
“Earth, Fire, Water.” Bobby counted off the elements represented in the sigils. “When Wind shows up, it’ll be a party.”  
  
The spirit flickered in front of Ellen, and she fired a round into it, all liquid grace and purpose. The only hint of tension came from her husky voice. “Hurry it the hell up, Singer.”  
  
Bobby sliced his palm, letting the blood drip onto the smoldering herbs. “Almost there.” A draft wafted through the room, stirring the graveyard dirt inside the circle. “Shit. Not yet, dammit!”  
  
“Is it here?” Sam’s eyes darted around, searching for something to shoot. He saw nothing, but they all heard the sudden, soft whispers echoing around them. “Hurry, Bobby.”  
  
Opening a book, Bobby read a short incantation in Russian or something akin to it, maybe. Sam spent no more thought on it as a strong wind blew through the gutted building, knocking off Bobby’s cap. Bobby repeated the incantation until the smoldering herbs caught fire and sent up a high flame cloaked in a thick, black smoke.  
  
“All right, inside the circle, both of you, and don’t move until I say so.” Bobby picked up the mirror and scanned the room. “Don’t shoot at the spirits until I say. They won’t be able to touch you inside the circle. You should be all right…you know…just as long as you don’t get skewered by flying debris.” The other hunters gaped at him, incredulous. He shrugged. “What? You want hazard pay?”  
  
The vengeful spirit appeared with a growl right in front of Sam.  
  
“Another _Ördög_ Fighter?” It gave Sam a slow, glacial smile. “Big circus man like the other?” It looked him up and down, assessing. “Bigger!”  
  
“Who the hell are you? What did you do with my brother? How do you know him?”  
  
The spirit made no answer. Baring its teeth, the thing bowled toward Sam, barreling into the invisible barrier protecting the circle. Confusion flitted over its face. It let loose a deep, resonating growl of frustration when it couldn’t get to Sam. Holding its sparking fingers in the air, it created a cat’s cradle of glowing energy between its hands and uttered the summoning incantation, calling the wind-demon.  
  
“Here we go,” Sam shouted.

* *

 _April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“Em, stop!” Dean ran to catch up. He grabbed her arm, pulling her back.  
  
“Let me go!” Emma yanked against him, violent and wild with adrenaline. “Florabel!” She began running even as Dean strove to anchor her.  
  
“Em!” He wrapped his arms tight around her waist as she struggled. “I’ll get her! You get in the house.”  
  
“Florabel!” Emma called, her eyes fixed on the storm, making no indication that she heard him.  
  
He shook her, forcing her to look at him, but he saw little thought behind her eyes, only primal desperation.  
  
He pointed to the house. “Go! I’ll get her. I can run faster. I’ll bring her back, Em.” He shook her again. “Emma.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll find her.”  
  
His words finally penetrated. She blinked at him, horror-stricken, wordlessly begging him to save her child. He nodded his promise and sped away as the woman walked toward the house like a dazed trauma victim, heedless of the panic-stricken rabbits dashing across her path.  
  
The ground blurred beneath his feet. He felt nothing—no footfalls, no pain, not even the need to breathe. He flew across the prairie, leaping clumps of dead thistle and scrub, scanning the horizon as the oncoming bloated wall of frothing, billowing dirt, swallowed it. The only movement he saw on the ground was hundreds of jackrabbits making a mad, fruitless dash to outrun the storm. After a couple of minutes, the bloated bank of clouds filled the entirety of Dean’s vision. He saw no sign of Florabel.  
  
Flashes of blue flame licked outward from the mass as it curdled along the ground. Eddying pinwheels and scrolls of dust broke away from the head of the storm and hailed a dark, aurora-like curtain of dirt toward the earth, creating a black carpet that the storm paraded proudly down.  
  
A small flash of white caught Dean’s eye and he quickened his pace. It appeared no more than a white dot in the distance, shimmering in the trapped afternoon heat, but he knew. And he also knew there was no way he’d be able to get to her and back to the house before the storm caught them. The last few unlucky birds flew chaotically, already twitted and tossed by the wind and the forward momentum of the storm. They lurched and pitched in the air, calling shrill warnings as they fought to stay airborne.  
  
“Florabel!”  
  
Hearing him, she corrected course, mewling in terror as she sped toward him, blonde hair streaming behind her. Already, small chunks of debris fell like rose-petals and tickertape while the storm pompously marched forward. Dust devils and agitated pillars of tortured grit flew into the air all around them, puffing out toroidal vortices of dust in homage or in tribute to the power that bore them aloft. The storm’s metallic rumble boomed around them as it devoured the world.  
  
Florabel flung her arms out as she ran to Dean, eyes donut-wide and stricken. The storm almost had her—almost had his little girl. He surged forward, reaching his human limits, throwing himself at her. He grabbed her into his arms just as night descended and the tidal wave of dirt consumed them.  
  
This was like no other duster he’d ever seen; the darkness was abrupt and absolute. He felt Florabel in his arms, but he couldn’t see her. Pressing her head to his heaving chest, he turned around and ran back the way he came. But the mercurial winds within the cloud hit him from all sides, disorienting him. It didn’t take long before he’d lost all sense of direction.  
  
Keeping his eyes open proved impossible. Flying at close to eighty-miles-per-hour, cold grit scraped his eyes, causing tears to stream in an attempt to wash and protect them. Icy blasts and gusts came even faster, threatening to topple them at any given moment. It had been a warm, sunny afternoon, but the temperature had plummeted at least thirty degrees in only a few minutes.  
  
He paused, trying to catch his breath, but that proved a bigger challenge than fighting the wind. He tucked his face into the crook of his shoulder, like a bird seeking shelter under its wing in an attempt to find some angle, some place where he could breathe clean air.  
  
Florabel whimpered. “Pal—” She choked on the word and tried again. “Pally?”  
  
She groped his face, trying to establish contact. Pressing her forehead to his chest, she sought what little shelter and comfort she could, releasing a high-pitched squeal of fear and pain before it turned into another coughing fit. Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled out his bandana.  
  
“Breathe through this, sw—sweetheart.” He pressed the cloth against her mouth and nose. “Keep your eyes shut, and don’t open them for anyth—” He stopped, coughing and choking through the words, “—anything. Don’t open…them, not until…I tell you to. You hear me?” The little girl nodded against him. “You’ll be…all right.” He couldn’t afford to say anything else.  
  
He stumbled, blind, in the direction of the farmhouse—or what he hoped was the direction of the farmhouse. Florabel settled in his arms, tucking herself against the cooling sweat on his neck. Her breathing evened out, the bandana blocking the worst of the dust.  
  
Trudging forward, he covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow while holding onto Florabel with his other hand. His instincts told him to keep moving, so that’s what he did. The wind rattled and moaned past his ears, and he was certain he heard whispered words mixed into the din, bringing to mind the strange vortex that had enthralled him and stolen his memories. The intensity of the whispering grew, until the unintelligible chanting reverberated all around them—confirming to Dean that this was not a natural event.  
  
Dean doubled his pace, praying he was heading toward the house. No matter which way he turned, though, each stride brought him closer to the incanting voice. Blue quills of electricity snapped and sizzled as they spidered over his and Florabel’s bodies.  
  
“Pally! Ouch! Help!” He heard Florabel’s muffled yelps above the now-shrieking voices in the wind.  
  
A thunderous crack caused both of them to clutch their ears and cry out in pain. Seeing a blinding, white light through his closed eyelids, Dean tried to stagger away from it. A tremendous gust of wind brought him to his knees, and he wiped away the wet mud sealing his eyelids to venture a brief glimpse.  
  
Not twenty paces from them, a gaping hole in the very fabric of space had ripped open, spilling a bitter, searing light over them. Recognition hit him like a shockwave and the world warped and twisted and fell away. He screamed in frustration and panic as an ill-timed vision toppled him, causing him to lose his grip on Florabel.

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“Stay in the circle.” Bobby brandished the mirror as the elemental manifested near the gaping hole left by the previous attack.  
  
Sam watched Bobby fight for balance against the wind, while inside the protective circle both he and Ellen remained unaffected.  
  
“Bobby, be careful!” Sam shouted above the din.  
  
Bobby found his center and inched his way toward the wind-demon. “Workin’ on it!”  
  
“Are you out of your mind, Bobby Singer?” Ellen yelled. “Don’t get so close!”  
  
At that moment, the second spirit blipped and shuddered into phase at the other end of room, keeping its distance but watching the hunters. The first spirit began either feeding the demon or feeding off of it. Spiny strands of electricity leapt from its fingers where they attached to the outer edge of the swirling Cyclone. Bobby edged closer.  
  
“C’mon, then, you sonofabitch.” Bobby antagonized the spirit, fingers twitching, mirror at the ready.  
  
Despite the protective circle, flying debris proved a very real danger as a large chunk of what appeared to be the duct plenum of the air-system fell from the ceiling and shattered onto the floor below. Jagged pieces of aluminum shrapnel whizzed about the room.  
  
“Jesus!” Sam ducked when a large, sharp piece of metal flew past his head and embedded itself into the wall behind them.  
  
Like a film skipping its frames, the second, erratic spirit stuttered toward the wind demon and clamped on with its own electrical tether.  
  
“That’s it!” Bobby shouted as the inner core of the unstable vortex began to glow.  
  
Bobby turned the mirror toward the Cyclone, creating a dazzling, laser-like beam that bent back upon itself and into the elemental. There came a long, loud splintering as rays of light burst from either side, traveling along the electrical currents already established between the two spirits, ensnaring all three of them in connecting beams.  
  
The black cloud began whirling in the opposite direction, vacuuming the debris into itself as it had done when Dean disappeared. Large shards and chunks of metal clattered as they disappeared into the portal. The two spirits froze in place, no longer moving or resisting. They had become mere conduits for the circulating energies, with no say in the matter. The first spirit’s face remained fixed in a snarling rictus. The second spirit, still half in and out of phase, remained in a state of vacillation, unable to take shape.  
  
Sam’s heart leapt into his throat. “The door is open, Bobby! Now! Hurry!”

* *

 _April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Reality and vision collided, overlapping and blending until Dean no longer knew which was which. The searing light in both scenarios blinded him, and having his eyes open or closed made little difference.  
  
When he turned away from the Cyclone to look at Sam, he saw nothing but white. His stressed retinas had not yet recovered enough to process new data, and all he could see was the imprint of the blinding, elemental. He released an inarticulate, vibrant groan as his shoulder crashed against a large beam. The whispering incantation echoed around and through him, making it difficult to hear anything else.  
  
_Hang on, Dean!_ he heard Sam’s command, his sight clearing enough to make out his brother’s anguished face. Sam’s arms strained and bulged as he grabbed more of Dean’s shirt. When the material ripped in Sam’s grasp, Dean swung his uncoordinated, right arm up to hang on, but he never got it close enough to make contact. It fell to his side, as the storm tore at him, forcing another scream of agony from him.  
  
_Don’t l’go, Sam!_ His voice cracked and broke like a pubescent boy.  
  
“Pally! Help me! I cain’t hold on!”  
  
Dean’s body thrummed with adrenaline when the heart-rending screams of a child penetrated the membrane of his vision, calling his name.  
  
“Wake up, Pally! Please!”  
  
The girl twined her fingers through the straps of his overalls, clinging in desperation, but her slight weight was no match for the rabid winds spewing from the glowing core. If Dean couldn’t pull himself out of his vision, she’d become just another piece of flying debris, another casualty of the storm. Struggling to orient himself, he realized he was on his back, face-up, with Florabel sprawled on top, fighting to hold on. His body had created a dam of sorts, grit and dirt drifting against him and then suddenly blowing up and over in an arcing sheet of dust. It filled his eyes when he stirred and tried to look back at the light. “NnNnnuughhH!” He jounced and bucked against the semi-paralysis caused by the vision.  
  
Trying to reach an arm around Florabel to secure her, he found his limbs as unresponsive and uncoordinated as they’d been in the vision with Sam. Trapped between worlds, neither version of his body obeyed his commands. After several attempts, he succeeded in swinging his arm up, but it merely fell across Florabel’s back, giving her no help.  
  
Dean looked behind him, unsure if he was in the vision or not. The tear in the Cyclone widened, and the pulsing, crystal light blinded him as efficiently as the blasting dust.  
  
_Please don’t let go_ , he begged, but he didn’t know in which reality he uttered the words.  
  
With a rending crack, the vortex began absorbing and expelling debris around him, and he felt both drawn in and repelled as he straddled both worlds.  
  
_No! Dean! Grab my hand!_ Sam screamed. _Dean! Goddamn it! Grab my hand!_  
  
“Pally!” Florabel shrieked. “I’m falling!”  
  
Dean made one final, desperate attempt, simultaneously reaching for both Sam and Florabel. The instant flesh met flesh, the instant Dean’s fingertips brushed Sam’s after two months of failed attempts, the moment his brother’s hand clasped his, a lifetime of images and memories—true memories—crashed into him. Barreling at him like a million grains of dust, his memories lodged and implanted themselves in his conscious mind. But it was too much, too fast, and he screamed and recoiled from the violence of it all.  
  
Both the memories and the wind sent him rolling along the prairie floor, with just enough awareness left to reach out with numb hands and grip Florabel to him as they tumbled. He remained only marginally aware of his physical surroundings as his memories poured into him. Even when a large, spiked piece of sheet metal whizzed out of the vortex, slicing a deep gash into the back of his shoulder, the pain elicited no more than a twitch from him. He spent his remaining strength holding onto Florabel as their bodies skidded and skipped across the prairie floor and Dean remembered…  
  
_Everything._

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Suction from the vortex dragged Bobby toward it, and he staggered and strained to remain on his feet. Grasping the mirror in one hand, he clung to a support column with the other and began the retrieval spell. The room trembled and vibrated with each word of Latinate he uttered.  
  
When a large ceiling beam crashed into their circle, missing them by inches, Sam threw Ellen to the ground, protecting her with his body. Rainwater poured down, hissing as it hit the smoking herbs.  
  
“The gun!” Ellen scrabbled for the sawed-off she’d dropped when the ceiling collapsed.  
  
Regrouping, Sam and Ellen aimed their weapons at the dueling spirits, ready to fire as soon as Bobby gave the signal. Another thunderous crack reverberated as more of the ceiling collapsed. Sam had no choice but to grab Ellen and dive out of the protective circle. Straightaway, they became subject to the vacuum, and both scrambled to keep hold of their guns, searching for something to serve as an anchor.  
  
“Hurry Bobby!” Sam snagged hold of the only column still standing by the gaping back wall. Gripping it, he made Ellen crawl up his legs to find purchase.  
  
“Any damn time, Bobby!” Ellen wrapped her legs around the pillar and aimed her gun.  
  
The portal sparked and popped as Bobby shouted the last few words of the retrieval spell. Another blast of wind emanated from the vortex, but nothing came through the portal. Bobby watched the writhing Cyclone, his eyes wide with shock and disappointment.  
  
“Dammit! Hang on!” He recited the spell one more time to no avail. The Cyclone released nothing, and at this point the structural integrity of the building was at risk. They had mere seconds before the vortex devoured everything, including the three hunters. Time had run out.  
  
“Sonofabitch. Now! Shoot now!” Bobby yelled. Without hesitation, Sam and Ellen took aim at the spirits, shooting them in tandem.  
  
The ghosts disappeared in a hail of salt. With no fuel to feed the elemental, it twisted in on itself and whorled into a small dust devil then spiraled into nothing. As the winds dissipated, Sam unfolded himself and stared, blinking dumb and numb, his mouth gaping.  
  
The room was a disaster, another outer wall having collapsed. None of that held his attention, however. He searched where the portal had opened and where Dean _should_ have appeared. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

* *

 _April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Another clamorous boom sounded and all light vanished when the brilliant core of the storm snapped shut. The chilling susurration continued while dirt and wind rammed into them, punting them along the ground like tumbleweeds as a spate of memories coursed through Dean: his parents bringing a squishy Sammy home from the hospital—his mother’s brutal, fiery murder and his father’s vengeance—Sammy’s kindergarten Thanksgiving play that Dad never showed for—the endless hours of weapons training—Sam’s first concussion—hunt after hunt—Sam slamming the door as he walked off in the rain, determined to make a new life for himself—Sam, possessed by Meg, shooting him on a frosty night in Duluth. The images came at Dean so fast, a fusillade so intense, his head snapped back, his body seizing from the overload.  
  
Each memory stuck. Every scene _took_. Dean cried out, unable to process all of them but having no choice. He heard Florabel’s echoing cries, joining him in sheer terror, a baby wolf lifting its head and joining its parent in mournful lamentation without knowing why. He wrapped his arms around her and fought to get a purchase on anything to stop them from tumbling. Dean felt a sharp crack on his skull as he slammed against something solid, nearly losing his grip on Florabel. Everything went soft and quiet for a second.  
  
Shaking his head to clear it, he turned, positioning Florabel between him and whatever they’d hit, giving her some protection from the flying dust and debris. Rising to his knees, he touched the weathered bark of a tree, its skin as sleek as driftwood from years in the wind. Certain it was the lone tree with the barbed wire nest in it, Dean knew they weren’t far from the house, but he had no way of knowing in what direction it lay.  
  
With Florabel sandwiched between him and the tree, Dean took a moment to lean his head against its bark, gasping for breath, attempting to absorb what had happened. His eyes stung as dust and tears formed a wet cement over his lids, making it impossible for him to open them. Of course, he didn’t need his eyes to see the _one_ scene repeating itself in a loop in his brain—Meg shooting him. Not Sam. _Meg._  
  
Despite everything, despite the physical agony and his inability to draw a breath, despite trying to protect Florabel from the lethal storm—despite it all, Dean felt a fierce, wild relief. Absolute relief. Sam had not tried to kill him—had not abandoned him. Emma, in her infinite wisdom, had known better. Sam. Sammy. That incessant tip-of-the-tongue feeling he’d had for the past two months was gone. Jesus H. Fucking Christ. Sammy. Finally.  
  
A vicious gust of wind shoved him against the tree, and his head connected with the hard bark. And that brought everything else home to him as well. For the past two months he’d been out of time and out of mind. His life made sense again, but it was more screwed to hell than ever.  
  
Florabel’s choking coughs further reminded him of the gravity of his situation. No matter how much he wanted to celebrate, there he was, kneeling against a tree in the middle of a supernatural, super-charged black blizzard—forty four years before his birth, with no known means of returning to his own time—holding not only Florabel’s life in his hands, but Emma’s as well, because if anything happened to Florabel, Emma would not survive it. He was certain of that. So, yeah…things were looking pretty shitty at the moment.  
  
The wind assaulted them without reprieve. Dust had drifted during his trip down memory-lane, and he was now knee-deep in the stuff. The house was not far, but it might as well be a hundred miles away. He couldn’t see a thing. Breaking the cold, cemented crust of tears and dirt on his eyes would only expose them to more damage. The tree at least provided an anchor and one wall of shelter. They had only to survive until the storm passed. Listening, he thought he still heard dim whispers in the wind. Whatever had created the initial vortex was responsible for this, he was certain of it. He recalled his and Sam’s last hunt in Boise City, remembered the vengeful spirit summoning the Cyclone that had brought him here.  
  
“Sonofabitch.”  
  
“Slaid.” He chewed the name and spat it out. Slaid and his chamber of horrors under the barn: the altar, the herbs, the blood—no doubt a sacrifice involved. He must have performed a black ritual, summoning something so nasty it’d ripped a hole in time that he’d fallen through. Dean shuddered to think what the farmhand had sacrificed to bring about this storm. There was no way that a chicken or a jackrabbit would provide the juice needed to produce this. This would require something big. Something devastating.  
  
A yelp from Florabel as a strand of electricity shocked her, pulled him from his thoughts.  
  
“Hang on, sweetheart.” Dean ignored the powerful static shock he received when he unhitched his overalls and stretched out the bib. Hoisting Florabel up, he swaddled her into them, settling her next to his union suit and tucking his shirt over her. It wouldn’t be impervious, but it would be safer than where she was.  
  
He fought through the words, gulping dust with each breath. “It’s like…a blanket-tent, Bel. Stay…there.” He hooked the overalls, creating a marsupial-like pouch for her to shelter in. She clung to him, legs wound around his waist, crying and snuffling into her bandana.  
  
Dean tried to find a position that didn’t result in a lungful of dirt, but nothing worked. After a few minutes of shifting and repositioning, he coughed until he vomited mud onto the tree. Florabel pressed the bandana through the top of his shirt, offering it to him now that she was more sheltered.  
  
“No.” He pushed the bandana down, forcing it over her mouth.  
  
Now that the surge of adrenaline and acute danger from the heart of the storm had passed, now that they were somewhat stable for the moment, Dean felt blood streaming down his back from the shrapnel that had hit him. He didn’t feel any pain yet, too cold to feel much of anything. The temperature had to have dropped over forty degrees now, and he shivered. Florabel fidgeted under his shirt, her movements tugging on the wound, worrying it wider, spilling more warm blood. Another round of coughing hit, and he vomited more silt.  
  
He heard the sound of material ripping, and Florabel’s hand poke through the opening at his neck, holding a torn panel of her dress for him to use as a bandana.  
  
“Please, Pally. Take it.”  
  
He grabbed the material and pressed it to his mouth, taking a painful, smothered breath. After a few more moments of gulping as much dirt as air, a pleasant dislocation crept over him. The storm raged on with no sign of ebbing. Blood loss, lack of oxygen and complete exhaustion numbed everything but his sense of cold. Even the grim situation he found himself in seemed nothing more than an amusing absurdity.  
  
“Oh man, Sammy.” He smiled a drained and battered smile. “I went to a fuckin’ square-dance. Sonofabitch!”

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“Where is he, Bobby?” Sam shouted, his eyes flitting over the debris. “Where is he?”  
  
Ellen glanced around in confusion then looked at the old hunter. “Did you perform the spell correctly?”  
  
“It wasn’t the spell.” Bent double, Bobby caught his breath from the strain of having held the demon and spirits for so long. “The spell was fine. There just wasn’t anything for it to grab.”  
  
“What’s that mean, Bobby?” Sam glared, looming over the man. “What the hell does that mean?”  
  
Bobby’s stunned face stewed with emotion. “I don’t know entirely. The spell should have grabbed him from wherever he was. It’s like he…” He stammered.  
  
“Like what?” Sam said, his eyes turning liquid. “Don’t say it, Bobby.”  
  
“It’s like he ain’t here.” Bobby’s voice went low, gentle. “He ain’t nowhere. Even if he was…” He paused, eyes darting away from Sam. “Even if he wasn’t alive, it would still grab what was left. Dean ain’t in a place to be grabbed.”  
  
“Then where?” Ellen voiced everyone’s question. “Out of phase? Another dimension? What?”  
  
Bobby rummaged through the debris, retrieving the guns. “Could be.”  
  
“What? Like Carol-Ann?” Sam threw his arms wide. “Seriously? Bobby, we have to do something now.”  
  
“We are,” Bobby said. “We’re gonna start by doing some proper research. You said that damn thing knew Dean. Don’t know how or why, but we gotta work it out before we try to do anything this damn-fool heroic again. Somethin’ is goin’ on here, and we need to get our footing straight before we try to walk this tightrope.”  
  
“And we still need to find a way to protect the workers. We’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest here, and I don’t think these spirits are gonna be satisfied by just tossin’ folks around anymore. This goes on any longer and folks are gonna start dying.” Ellen grabbed her gun from Bobby.  
  
Devastated, Sam glanced around the room, or what was left of it, arm bracing his battered ribs. “I tried to hold on,” he said, dazed, his voice sounding like glass shards grinding together. “Why couldn’t I have held on?” He looked at the other hunters. “I had him.” Tears streamed down his face, pain and exhaustion bowing him. “I had him, Bobby.”  
  
Ellen ran to him and hooked his arm over her shoulder, supporting him as he stumbled. “You did,” she said. “You held on with everything you had. This ain’t over, Sam. We’ll get him, honey. It ain’t near over.” She looked to Bobby, who grabbed Sam’s other arm, shouldering it and guiding the shocky young man from the building.  
  
“I need him back, Bobby.” Sam limped along, spent and broken. “I’m at the end of my rope, man.”  
  
“Then tie a big-ass knot and hang on,” Bobby said. “It ain’t gonna be easy, but it’s gonna get done. Now, let’s get gone before those spirits come back or the police arrive. Hang in there, kid.”

* *

 _April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
His mind wandered tangentially, thoughts thick and stringy but untroubled. The cold bothered him more than anything else did. The muddy blood puddling down his back was a bitch, but it was warm—at least initially. The rest of him shivered non-stop as the frigid wind drove him against the tree. But other than that he was pretty good. The constant jolts and shocks from the static electricity barely registered anymore. They were only annoying because the small spikes of pain made sleeping difficult, and he really, really wanted a nap. He was glad he kept his union suit on, because he’d be seriously freezing without it.  
  
He laughed, though it hurt like hell. A union suit! He was wearing one. How fucked up was that? Sammy would never let him hear the end of it. Dean Winchester in long underwear? The swatch of dress Florabel had given him nearly slipped from his clumsy fingers as he continued chuckling over his _period costume_.  
  
“Fuckin’ overalls.” He snorted, voice muck-deep and barely audible. “Godda hide the camera from Sammy. Only need a pitchfork, an’ it’ll be _American Gothic_ , dude.”  
  
Florabel readjusted under his clothing and he put a hand to his torso, feeling the lump like a mother soothing an unborn child. Forehead pressed against the bark of the tree, he huddled on his knees as the growing drift continued to mount past his hips.  
  
“S’all good.” He patted his ‘tummy’.  
  
At least now he didn’t have to expend any more energy hanging onto the tree; the wind and the dirt held them firm. He leaned back, attempting to lift his eyelids, but they were glued shut. He wanted to scrape the muddy cement off and clean the dirt now embedded under his lids. They itched and stung. Tears continued spilling out, catching more dirt and creating an even bigger cake of mud over his eyes. It felt funny and wrong, but his fingers were too thick and clumsy to work, so he didn’t bother anymore. It’d have to wait. He had bigger things to worry about, like the fact he was in the fucking 1930’s. He was pretty certain getting an eye full of mud was commonplace, here. No doubt, Emma’d make him a poultice of moldy bread or clean his eyes out with cow piss or something and he’d be fine.  
  
“Skunk oil an’ turpentine?” His voice wheezed like a squeezebox. “Are you kiddin’ me? Wh’ the hell?” Dean’s head flopped back and relaxed into the wind.  
  
“Screw you, Steinbeck!” he bellowed and got a mouthful of dirt for his efforts. He coughed and hacked and decided that leaning into the wind wasn’t so smart. His breathing came labored and shallow, and the cloth kept slipping.  
  
“Only ever read the CliffsNotes anyway.” He let out a strangled growl of perturbation. “Din’t think I’d ever have t’live here, dickwad!” Working his uncoordinated fingers, he tied the swatch of material around his nose and mouth so he didn’t have to hold it anymore.  
  
“I’m th’ fuckin’ masked bandit, y’all,” he mumbled. “Pew-pew!” He shot the tree with his fingers.  
  
Hearing a muffled whimper coming from somewhere below, he felt Florabel rubbing his back as she held on to him, trying to soothe him.  
  
Florabel—the little girl who had stolen his heart and soul, the child he would die for, who he would never stop loving as long as he lived—was probably older than his grandmother. Jesus, he was so screwed.  
  
Starved of blood and oxygen, his brain faltered and he could no longer recall why he was outside in the wind. He tried to stand and failed; he tried to open his eyes and failed.  
  
“Hell with it.” Slumping against the tree, he relaxed his knees now that the drift was up to his waist. He needed to sleep for a little while. Someone called to him as he drifted.  
  
“Pally?”  
  
“Nuhhghh, godda headache, Sammy. G’way.” Sam moved, worried, or perhaps trying to find a better position.  
  
With the dust pushing Dean against the tree, Sammy didn’t have enough room to breathe, maybe. Dean shifted, trying to give the kid more space.  
  
“Shhhh buddy. S’okay. Dad’ll he home soon.” He tried to soothe the lump on his belly. His brother’s small body scooched up, and Sam’s little hand periscoped out of his shirt, touching his face, patting and pinching it. “Ow, nnhuhh Sam. Quiddit. M’tired.”  
  
“Stay awake, Pally!” Sam begged him from far away. Dean took the hand and tucked it under his shirt and gripped his collar tight, trying to prevent dust from getting inside the makeshift cocoon. A wave of protective love bubbled up, his heart nearly jackhammering out of his chest with it. He patted his shirt.  
  
“Shhhh, Sammy.” He called to his baby brother. “I got you. S’gonna be fine.”  
  
Sam coughed. “It’s me, Pally! Please don’t sleep.”  
  
“Shhhh, Sammy.” Dean coughed up a mouthful of mud and swallowed it back down, slick as wet clay.  
  
“I ain’t Sammy. It’s me, Pally…” Sam’s soft whimpers sounded vague and hollow in his ringing ears.  
  
“Don’ cry, bud. M’here,” he said as his spine tingled deliciously. He felt as tranquil and buoyant as a feather in the breeze and his thoughts drifted away on the same placid wind.


	14. Dust Cain't Kill Me

__

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
She heard nothing—no wind—no whispers—nothing beyond her sniffles and sobs. She shifted, head throbbing, struggling to find clean air to breathe. Snuffling, she coughed a mouthful of cleanser-thick grit and swallowed it, having no other means of disposal. The slick mess made her shiver and retch again. Pressing her clammy forehead to Dean’s chest, she tried to be brave, but her legs cramped and her head hurt, trapped in the stuffy dark under his shirt. She wanted out—now.  
  
It had been a monster—not a storm—a real-life monster. She was sure of it. It had known her, had whispered to her, had wanted to hurt her. She’d only ever known that kind of hate, that kind of evil, one other time. But this had been so much bigger, and if Pally hadn’t been there, she would have died, she was sure of that, too.  
  
Pally. She was so worried about him. He’d had a hard time in the storm, he’d yelled and screamed and twitched, and then he sat, talking nothing but nonsense, laughing for no reason—calling her _Sammy_. How could he think she was a boy? After that, he’d stopped talking at all, and that had scared her the most. He hadn’t moved or made a sound in a while, not even when she poked him hard and called his name.  
  
He’d told her to keep her eyes shut and to stay put, and she’d been good and done what he said, but now that the wind and whispers had stopped, she didn’t know what to do.  
  
“Pally?”  
  
He didn’t answer, he just breathed—fast and rumbly. Florabel’s lungs rumbled, too, but not near as bad as his. If she’d swallowed a bucketful of dust, and she was sure she had, Pally must have swallowed a whole lot more.  
  
“Pally, say something, please!” She grabbed his sides and shook him, but he didn’t stir.  
  
She gulped tears and snot and coughed some more. She had no room and no air, and both Pally and the tree pressed into her, hurting her. If she didn’t do something soon she was going to fall asleep, too—and that would be bad. After a moment of wiggling to get some leverage against the tree, she pushed away from Pally with all her might, buying her some breathing room. Earning a couple of inches, she made up her mind to disobey him, hoping he wouldn’t be too mad. She opened her eyes.  
  
To her surprise, she found it wasn’t totally black anymore. Pale light came through the flannel of his shirt, but she couldn’t see anything solid yet. Tunneling under Dean’s shirt, she popped out the top like a prairie dog, her head pressing against the bottom of his chin.  
  
The silver moon, three quarters full, lit the dust-covered landscape. A few comet-like tails of dust caught the moonlight, twisting and serpentining through the air as it settled. The world was eerily still—shell shocked, glassy-eyed, and mute.  
  
Pally’s head leaned against the gnarled bark of the tree, the drift stopping an inch below his chest. Black dirt covered the cloth around his mouth and nose, and thick mud filled the space where his eyes should be. Florabel squealed, panicked. He didn’t look real. She untied the rag and tapped his cheek.  
  
“Pally, please, please wake up!” He didn’t move, not even a little.  
  
Digging herself out took time. She worked in waves, first freeing one hand, then another, resting in between efforts. By the time she heaved herself up and out, she’d popped all of the buttons on Pally’s shirt, and his whole body now listed to the side, his face buried in the dirt. He started to choke.  
  
Bracing her feet against the tree, she grabbed the straps of his bloody overalls and pulled until she freed his head and he stopped making such horrible sounds. She rested for a minute, sinking into the drift as she searched the horizon.  
  
Not far away, the silhouette of the house and barn stood dark against the moon and a million shining stars. It wasn’t far. She had to get Pally home. Pulling on Dean’s arm, she tried to free him from the drift, but she only wound up digging herself in deeper. She didn’t have near the strength to free him.  
  
“You have to wake up, Pally! I cain’t git you to the house.” No response. Nothing but a small, raspy gurgle from his throat. She hugged him in despair. “Oh, Pally…” Florabel glanced toward the house. “I’m gonna go git Mama, Pally. Don’t be scared.” Giving him one last hug, she fought her way out of the drift.  
  
Teetering, her bruised and battered legs refused to support her, and she fell on her bottom with a jolt. She stretched her aching body, bloody from tumbling along the prairie floor and stiff from hours of cramped inactivity. With a yelp, she plucked out a spiny quill imbedded in her shin.  
  
She didn’t want to move. Everything hurt and she was so, so sleepy. But Pally needed her, and she needed her mama, so she backhanded her tears away and quit her _bellyachin’_ like Old Jeb would tell her to do. Bracing her hands on the ground, she got her feet under her and staggered toward the house, making her slow way around large, rippling dunes of dust glistening in the moonlight. Tottering forward, she saw candles twinkling in the windows that her mama must have put there to guide them home.  
  
A huge drift covered the entire back of the house, all the way to the roof, burying the backdoor. She couldn’t get close.  
  
“Mama!” Her voice was small and her mama wouldn’t hear her through that much dust anyway, so she walked to the front of the house to find another drift blocking the stairs to the porch. She tried to scale it, but she mired down, wallowing.  
  
“Mama!” Exhausted, she flailed and writhed, fighting the drift, but getting no closer to the porch. “Mama!”  
  
She’d been brave this whole time. She had. But things were bad now and her body stopped working right, her movements jerky and twitchy from exertion. Her spirit broke and she fell into the drift.  
  
That’s when her mama opened the door.  
  
“Mama…”  
  
Her mama didn’t hear the whisper. She held a small kerosene lamp in her hand, her face blank and hopeless as she peered into the night. Dark dust covered her from head to toe. It must have been as bad inside the house as out, even with all the weather-stripping they’d done.  
  
“Mama…” Florabel’s small voice rasped as she flailed in the drift, her body giving out on her.  
  
Hearing Florabel’s voice, her mama looked right at her. Recognition sparked and her entire body became a wrecker-ball of emotion and need, throwing herself into the drift, plowing her way to Florabel, legs thrusting the dust as she came. She released a raw, primitive growl, from somewhere so deep it scared Florabel. She felt its vibration in the drift around her.  
  
Arms stretched, Emma swept her into a crushing embrace. Her mama clutched and hugged and gasped, wringing her out like a dishrag, shaking her in a violent caress. Her mama didn’t talk, she just kept groaning and sobbing and kissing her—kissing her everywhere—and shushing her even though Florabel wasn’t crying anymore. “Mama,” Florabel said as her mama kissed and kissed her. “Mama…”  
  
“Shhh, babygirl. Shhhh…” Her mother’s first real words. “Shhh.” She sunk into the drift and rocked Florabel like a baby. “Shhh…Mama’s here. Mama’s right here.”  
  
Breathing in her mother’s scent, the little girl surrendered to the hug, whimpering and snuffling. Sleep tempted her, but she remembered Pally, and Florabel’s eyes flew open.  
  
“Pally…” She lifted her tired head. “You gotta help him, Mama. He won’t wake up.”  
  
Her mother stopped rocking, stirring from her dazed stupor. “You seen him?”  
  
Florabel nodded. “He saved me, Mama.” She wiggled, trying to break free. “But he ain’t awake even though I tried and tried to rouse him. We gotta go git him.”  
  
Emma gripped the little girl’s shoulders. “Where?”  
  
“He’s by the dead tree that’s got the crow’s nest in it. Please, Mama, let’s go git him. He’s breathin’ funny.”  
  
“Oh, God.” Emma floundered her way to the porch stairs and deposited her daughter. “Stay here, Florabel.” She turned to fight her way out.  
  
“Mama, no! I want to come, too!”  
  
“Don’t you dare leave this house.” Emma’s voice dropped an octave. “I’ll go see to Dean. You wait here.” Florabel knew that tone and that’s all there was to it. She sat on the steps to wait, when she heard a voice in the dark.  
  
“Ho there! Emma? Florabel?”  
  
Both women watched a figure walk out of the night. “Old Jeb!” Florabel cried. “You gotta help!”  
  
The old man trotted up. “You folks all right? I been stuck in town all this while worried sick. I come back as soon as…My God…” He drew a sharp breath when he saw them. “Florabel, honey. You look like you been trapped in a coal mine for a week.”  
  
“Hurry! Pally’s out there an’ he’s hurt bad! Please help us!”  
  
“Where is he?”  
  
Emma grabbed his shirtsleeve. “Over by the tree.”  
  
“Mama! Don’t leave me here alone!” Florabel begged.  
  
“I got her, Em.” Jeb made quick work of the drift with his longer legs. He scooped the little girl into his arms. “You can hold the lamp for us, okay, doll?” He picked up the lantern. The little girl swallowed another sob and nodded. “Good girl. Let’s go git your Pally back to you.”

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Dean must have left the TV on. Typical. If he’d told him once, he told him a hundred times to shut the damn thing off. Probably left it on just to provoke him. He could see his shit-eating smirk, already. Asshole. Sam smacked his lips and rolled over, trying to ignore it. After a few groggy seconds, however, Sam realized the voices were coming from inside the room, not from the TV.  
  
He sat up with a jolt and hissed, grabbing his ribs, seized by both a sharp pain and the bone-deep realization that Dean couldn’t have left on the TV. He sat for a moment blinking slowly as reality sunk in. His head felt spongy, his tongue sour and flabby.  
  
“Steady there, Sam.” Bobby rose from the table and came over to the bed. “Why don’t you lie down a bit longer?”  
  
“A bit…? Wha’?” Sam squinted at the clock—8:42am. “Are you kidding me? Jesus, Bobby, what the hell?”  
  
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, sorting through his memories. They’d returned to the motel after their aborted rescue attempt and settled in for a night of research. Bobby’d put on a pot of coffee for the three of them, and that was it. He didn’t remember anything else.  
  
“Bobby?” He glared at the older man, voice thick with suspicion.  
  
“What? You needed the sleep.” Bobby shrugged but avoided eye contact. Guilty bastard.  
  
Sam bitchfaced him, seething worse than a Yellowstone geyser. “You _drugged_ me!”  
  
“I did no such thing.” Bobby folded his arms hotly but then cooled, shrugging a small, contrite shrug. “Technically, it was Ellen.” He pointed to his accomplice.  
  
“While _you_ distracted him.” Ellen squinted, giving Bobby a tart glance. She put her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Hackles down, boy. You needed the rest. You were out of fumes to run on.”  
  
“How could you let me sleep?” He flung the covers off, growling in frustration.  
  
“Don’t get lippy with us, boy. If we hadn’t put you down, you’d ‘a just dropped,” Bobby said. “We been doin’ what research could be done, and now we’ll all go on together without the threat of you topplin’ over on one of us. Ellen could probably take it, but I’m damn delicate.” Ellen smacked him.  
  
“Sam, listen honey. There really wasn’t much we could do that early in the morning. Cimarron County hasn’t uploaded all of their old records yet. We could only go as far back as the 1950’s and there was no information on that plot of land between now and then. Whatever happened there had to have happened earlier. We’re gonna have to go over there and take a look. Go on and get yourself a shower and then we can head out.”  
  
Sam blinked, his righteous indignation over being drugged forgotten for the moment. “Hang on.” He rummaged through his duffel and handed Ellen a card. “We have this, too.”  
  
She read it and raised an eyebrow. “Mad Dog? Who’s that?”  
  
“He’s the previous owner. Didn’t get his real name, sorry. The contractor at the construction site gave us his address. Gerry said he was the city’s main doctor for decades. Retired now, I guess. I’m not sure how long he owned the land, but we might be able to get a lot of information from him.”  
  
Ellen pocketed the card. “Let’s split up and cover more ground. You and Bobby head to the County Record’s office, and I’ll go have a chat with this Mad Dog.”  
  
“You sure you don’t want me to go?” Sam asked. “Gerry hinted the old Doc is kind of cranky.”  
  
“Ain’t my first rodeo, Sam. Been tendin’ bar for twenty years. If I can handle Bobby Singer on a bender, I can handle some old coot with an attitude.” Her eyes glinted with mischief.  
  
“You’re hilarious,” Bobby said.  
  
Ellen nipped the old hunter’s nose and gave his cheek a couple of light smacks. “And don’t you forget it.” She grabbed her jean-jacket and palmed Bobby’s keys off the table. “All right boys. I’m off to see Mad Dog. I’ll meet up with you at the Record’s office when I’m done.”

* *

 _April 14-15, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Emma couldn’t see him at first.  
  
“There he is, Mama!” Florabel pointed to the crumbled form half buried at the base of the tree. “He’s right there, see?”  
  
Jeb set the child down and held the lantern aloft while Emma ran forward.  
  
“Dean!” Emma called his name as she scrambled her way through the drift.  
  
“I’ll get ‘im.” Jeb handed the lantern to Florabel and began digging a solid trench through the mound of dirt so they could free the young man.  
  
“Oh God.” Emma’s hand went to her mouth in horror. “Don’t no one touch his eyes.” She cradled his head. “We gotta be careful and clean them with water until the dirt is well gone.” Smoothing her hand through his dusty hair, she patted his cheek. “Dean? Can you hear me? Dean!” She called him again, this time in a voice that demanded an answer.  
  
Dean expelled a rattled breath and moaned, but he remained otherwise unresponsive. Jeb continued to attack the dust, hands pawing and digging with furious strokes. He made enough headway that Dean lost his support and toppled limply onto his side. Emma reached around, holding his upper body, keeping it out of the drift, while Jeb continued.  
  
She put her arms about him and kissed his temple. “We got you, Dean. You’s gonna be all right.” She turned to Florabel. “Florabel, shine the light a little closer.”  
  
Holding him, Emma checked him for other injuries, hissing when her hand came away from his back, sticky with muddy blood. She separated the shirt tatters, revealing the angry gash on his shoulder and upper arm.  
  
“We’s gonna have to clean that an’ sew it up.” She continued taking inventory. “Hurry Jeb. We gotta git him out’a here. His breathing’s bad, and there ain’t no tellin’ how much blood he lost.” Her voice was all business, but she locked eyes with Jeb revealing Dean’s grave condition to the old man. Jeb’s eyes twitched to Florabel and then to Emma. He nodded and returned to work, digging as fast as he could.  
  
Once Jeb made a serviceable path, Emma tilted Dean into his waiting arms. He threaded his hands under Dean’s armpits from behind and clasped them around his chest.  
  
“After we git him free, we’ll be able to lift him proper, but right now I’m just gonna slide him nice ‘n easy like.” Jeb heaved him toward Florabel and the lantern. Dean moaned in pain. “It’s gonna be all right, son. We gotcha.”  
  
With effort, Jeb eased Dean from the drift and laid him flat. The old man tapped Dean’s cheek as they huddled around. “Christ, he’s a mess. He’s covered from stem to stern an’ he’s rattlin’ purty bad, too.” Jeb scanned Florabel. “How’d you make it through without being as bad off?”  
  
“He kept me in there.” Florabel pointed to Dean’s burst buttons. “Like the tent he made for me in my room.”  
  
Emma swallowed, fingers caressing his torn shirt. “Oh Dean…”  
  
“Dean, wake up, son.” Jeb tried to rouse him.  
  
“Wake up, Pally.” Florabel knelt with the others, holding one of Dean’s hands and patting it. “We’s here—Me and Mama and Old Jeb.” Her composure faltered, and she started to cry. “Please wake up.”  
  
Dean stirred at that. “Sammy?” The effort sent him into a coughing fit. Emma and Jeb rolled him on his side, thumping his back.  
  
“That’s it, son. Git it out.”  
  
Dean coughed and vomited thick grit into the dirt.  
  
“We gotta git him to the house now.” Emma nudged Jeb. Easing Dean on his back, Emma situated herself by his feet, ready to lift, but Jeb put up a hand to stop her.  
  
“I’ll git him.” The old man gathered Dean and lifted him with a grunt. “You mind Florabel. I wouldn’t ‘a been able to do this when he first come here. He’s lost a lot of weight.”  
  
Emma snatched up Florabel and the lamp and followed Jeb to the house. The moon gave enough pale light that Jeb remained sure-footed for most of the way. He never spoke a single word of complaint and only asked for help once they reached the drift by the front porch. Emma set Florabel on the stairs and went to help Jeb with Dean. After a struggle they got him through the drift and into the house.  
  
More dust had settled in the short time Emma’d been away. A layer of dust at least an inch thick coated everything. Dust even clung in clumps to the walls, like wet snow on tree bark. They stirred up a cloud of it as they walked through the parlor and into the kitchen. Emma wiped off the table and motioned for Jeb to set Dean there. It was then that she saw Jeb shaking with the strain. He gave a heaving sigh as he set his burden down, swaying as he lost balance from the abrupt shift in weight.  
  
Emma grasped his arm. “You okay, Jeb?”  
  
“I’m fine. Ain’t as peppy as I used to be, but I ain’t a-gonna bust.” He patted her hand away. Emma checked him over, making sure he was steady before setting about lighting the lamps.  
  
“I hate to ask, Jeb, but we’s gonna need water, and lots of it.”  
  
Jeb nodded and grabbed two large buckets. “Don’t even need to ask, Em. Bring out the big tub and we’ll use that to catch what runs off when we clean his eyes. I’ll be right quick.” Taking the pail, he opened the backdoor and saw the wall of dust. “Well, that ain’t a-gonna work.” He headed toward the front door, instead.  
  
Emma dragged the washtub toward the table. She peeled Dean’s overalls down to his waist and removed his shirt, leaving him in his union suit.  
  
“Dean…” He made no response. She examined the mud on his eyes and gulped squeamishly. “We’ll git you fixed up in no time.” She brushed her shaky fingers through his hair. “You done real good, Dean. You got Florabel to me safe, just like you promised you would. I cain’t never repay you for that, and they ain’t no words to tell you how much it means. Ain’t no words to tell you how much _you_ mean....” Tears spilled down her dirty cheeks as she took his hand in hers. “Me an’ Florabel is right here.”  
  
Florabel climbed on a chair and leaned into the table. “We’s with you, Pally.” She took his other hand. “Please be okay.” She buried her head in his chest, whimpering.  
  
“None of that, Florabel.” Emma warned the girl, even while wiping tears from her own eyes. “We cain’t spare no time for that. We gotta do what needs doin’ to bring him back to us.” She touched her palm to Florabel’s brow. “You be brave.”  
  
They heard Jeb’s heavy boots coming. “Git down, now, baby girl. We’s gonna need room.” Florabel moved away.  
  
Jeb set the first pail next to Dean. “We’s gonna have to scoot him and tilt his head off the table and let the water run into the tub.”  
  
Emma lifted the other bucket from the floor and poured it into a pot on the stove. “Florabel, add fuel to the stove and set this water to boilin’ for Mama, then I want you out of the way, you hear me?”  
  
“Yes, Mama.” Florabel set to work with the kindling and coal.  
  
“I’ll keep bringing the water until you tell me to stop.” Jeb grabbed the pail and headed for the door.  
  
Emma hoisted Dean until his head hung off the end of the table. She grabbed the pail and a glass of water and began pouring it over his eyes as she supported his head with her hand. Dean reacted violently.  
  
“Nhnnnh!” He thrashed his arms about, moaning and coughing, spraying Emma with mud.  
  
“You’s all right, Dean. Don’t move now.” The man continued to cough and splutter as she poured the water. He tried to get a hand to his face, but Emma used her hip to hold it down. “Don’t touch your eyes, Dean. You’ll do damage we won’t be able to undo. Now hold still.”  
  
“Sam!” He called for his brother, disoriented and in pain. “Nahhrgh! Sam?”  
  
“Shhh. Dean you’s right here with me an’ Florabel. Remember? You got caught in the storm. I’m cleanin’ your eyes because you got dirt in ‘em. Just stay still an’ don’t move about.” Again, Dean tried to get his hand to his eyes. “Dean, no!” Emma used her stern voice. “You’s gonna blind yourself if you rub dirt into your eyes.”  
  
She stopped work, battling Dean’s hands, forcing them away from his face. He flailed and lashed against her, determined to get to them. Emma felt pity and relief when Dean lost the battle with a whimper and moan, his strength drained for the moment.  
  
“How’s he doin’?” Jeb asked as he brought another pail of water.  
  
“I cain’t clean his eyes, he keeps fightin’ me,” she said as the wounded man made another attempt to get to his face.  
  
Jeb came up. “I’ll hold him, you pour.” The old man took both of Dean’s hands and held them, leaning across his chest. Emma emptied another glass of water over his eyes.  
  
“Fuck! Sammy!” Dean struggled madly, unaware of his surroundings, fighting for his life. “I’ll fuckin’ kill y’assholes!”  
  
Emma couldn’t stifle a gasp of shock at his language.  
  
“He’s just airin’ his lungs out, Em. He don’t know what he’s sayin’.” A hint of a smile lit Jeb’s face. “Ain’t that right, Dean?”  
  
“Fuck you,” Dean wheeze, bucking against Jeb. “Where’s m’brother?” Another coughing fit rocked him, and they turned him on his side until it passed.  
  
Emma heard Florabel weeping in the corner. “He’s all right, Florabel. You sit quiet, an’ be good.”  
  
“Uhhnh!” Dean must have heard her crying. “Sam?” His voice cracked with emotion. Jeb thumped his back to try and loosen more of the dirt in his lungs. Dean growled in his throat, but another coughing fit interrupted him. “I’ll…fucking kill you, Slaid,” he said when he got his breath.  
  
“You tell ‘im, tough guy,” Jeb said with a pale smile and patted him.  
  
“Y’touch Bel again an’ yer dead…y’fuckin’ here me?” Dean tried to claw his way free from Jeb’s grip.  
  
“What’s he talkin’ about?” Emma brows pinched. “Slaid ain’t touched Florabel.” She continued thumping Dean’s back to loosen the dirt. Dean coughed until he vomited what looked like sludge from the bottom of a stagnant pond off the side of the table. He continued to mumble invectives to Slaid whenever he had the breath to spare.  
  
“Dunno, might be he’s confusing what Slaid done to you the other night. He’s talkin’ off his nut right now, Em. Don’t pay it no mind.” The old man cocked his head at the little girl in the corner. “Hang onto him a moment, Em.” He crossed the room and picked Florabel up, setting her on the table next to Dean. “We don’t got Sam, but we got Florabel, Dean. You remember her, don’tcha? Ain’t no one hurt her. She’s doin’ just fine, thanks to you.”  
  
Florabel lay next to him and hugged him tight. “Please don’t fuss, Pally, we’s only tryin’ to help you. We don’t want you hurtin’ yourself.”  
  
“Sam?” He snaked a protective arm around the little girl.  
  
“Close enough.” Jeb chuckled. “Now we’s gonna clean your eyes out, son. You hold on tight to Florabel so she don’t git scared.”  
  
Florabel cuddled him and held his hands while Emma and Jeb went back to rinsing his eyes. The pain had him writhing in agony.  
  
“Fffuck! Stop! Please stop! Jesus fuck!”  
  
“Should I just go git the Laudanum, Em?” Jeb worried his lip.  
  
Emma hesitated. “We cain’t Jeb. Not yet. We gotta git his lungs cleared. The Laudanum will stop his cough, an’ we need him to bring the dust up.” Dean let go of Florabel, fingers groping toward his eyes.  
  
“Well, we’s gonna have to do somethin’.” Jeb caught the young man’s hand and held it. “His eyes is stinging him too bad. I know what it feels like to git a little somethin’ caught in my eye…I cain’t imagine a whole eyeful of it.”  
  
Emma sighed and went to the bedroom. She returned with an armful of sheets.  
  
“You git on down, Florabel.” She lifted her off the table and sent her to the corner. The little girl wobbled and sat, blinking dopily. Emma watched her settle and went back to work.  
  
She turned to Jeb, handing him some sheets. “We’s gonna have to knot him down.” She and Jeb set to work, twisting the sheets around Dean’s wrists and tying them to the table-legs near his feet so he couldn’t lift his hands above his waist.  
  
Once Emma and Jeb had restrained Dean, they went through both large buckets of water. Dean fought them, but he was so out of it, he didn’t appear to know he’d been restrained. They repeatedly flushed his eyes, holding them open and working to remove every grain. Tears continuously poured from his blood red, agitated eyes.  
  
His irises roamed around, searching for something to focus upon, but whether due to his current confused state or because he had no sight, they never landed on anything for more than a second. They would have to wait until he was coherent to know the full extent of the damage. Jeb waved his hand in front of Dean’s eyes and snapped his fingers, but Dean didn’t respond. There was no way to tell what that meant, though. They peeled back his lids and poured more water into his eyes, flushing them thoroughly.  
  
“Sammy, please stop,” he begged just before his body went slack.  
  
Emma stopped pouring and bent down, checking him. “Dean?”  
  
“He’s just passed out. It’s a blessing, really,” Jeb said. “Let’s finish this so he don’t have to go through the pain of it when he’s awake.”  
  
“I hope he didn’t grind the dust into his eyes with his hands, when he was in the storm,” Emma said. “He won’t be able to see if’n he pressed on them.”  
  
Jeb nodded. “Well, at least the crust and dirt on them was untouched when we found him, so we gotta hope he had the sense not to rub ‘em during the storm.” He patted Emma’s cheek. “We’s gonna fix him up, darlin’. Don’t you think otherwise.”  
  
When they’d done all they could with his eyes, they moved on, untying him and rolling him over. He didn’t flinch when Emma inspected his shoulder wound. “This needs sewin’.” She palmed her forehead, exhausted. “Then we need to clean him up and git Florab…” She stopped cold, looking toward her florabel.  
  
Florabel lay curled in the corner, covered in bruises, scratches and dirt. “Florabel,” Emma scurried to her and pushed aside the girl’s blonde hair, now nothing more than a sooty mass of tangles. “Florabel?” When she picked her up, the child remained malleable and unresponsive in Emma’s arms. “Jeb!” Emma called to the old man in terror. “Somethin’s wrong!”  
  
Jeb ran over and cupped the little girl’s chin, trying to rouse her. “Florabel? Doll? Open your eyes, sweetheart.” She opened her eyes for a brief moment before they shut again.  
  
“What’s wrong with her?” Emma eyes went wild with panic.  
  
“Look at the time, Em.” He pointed to the clock. “It’s 3:00am. This little thing has been through hell today, she’s tuckered is all. C’mon, let’s git her washed and then we’ll finish with Dean and git ‘em both to bed.”  
  
He poured some of the hot water into the tub. Emma removed the tattered dress, stroking it wistfully. There was no saving it. She fingered the lace, remembering the hours she spent sewing it, thinking how surprised and delighted Florabel would be. She set the dress aside. It didn’t matter. None of it did. She had her little girl, thanks to Dean.  
  
Emma immersed Florabel in the lukewarm water. She remained fast asleep, opening her eyes only when her mother leaned her head back to wet her hair, but closing them when Emma spoke a soothing word. Emma hummed to her, kissing each finger as she washed them one by one.  
  
“My baby girl,” Emma whispered. “My beloved.”  
  
Jeb went into Dean’s bedroom and removed the top cover from the bed. Folding it, he carried it from the house, beating it free of dust. He returned and held it open, ready to receive the little girl.  
  
“I’ll take her into Dean’s room. It’s a mess in there, dust everywhere, but it ain’t no better or worse than anywheres else. I’ll hang a wet sheet on the window agin and start dustin’ tomorrow. We’s gonna have to keep that room as clean as we can so’s their lungs don’t git no worse. Best to put them in the same room so’s we can watch over them at the same time. Let me have her, Em.” Emma set the naked child in Jeb’s outstretched hands.  
  
“Don’t let nothin’ happen to her, Jeb.”  
  
“Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to Miss Flibbertigibbet.” He covered her and bounced her lightly in his arms. “I’ll put her to bed and then we can git Dean tooken care of.”  
  
Emma turned to the young man and began stripping off his overalls. “What’s this?” She pulled the gun from his pocket. Eyes popping wide as she showed Jeb. “Why would Dean have a gun?”  
  
Jeb hemmed. “Oh, th-that’s mine. We was gonna go shootin’ for practice. I lent it to him.” He cleared his throat, shifting Florabel in his harms to hold out a hand. “Here, let me take that and I’ll put it in his drawer for now.” He took the gun and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Dean alone with Emma.  
  
The woman’s eyes flitted over him as she took a steadying breath. He looked terrible. Emma remembered the strength and power that had emanated from him when he first arrived, despite how sick he’d been at the time. He was so thin, now, his muscles still defined but so much less than what they’d been. She unbuttoned his union suit and eased his arm out of it. Dirt crusted to him like a second skin—scaly, black and gritty. The shotgun scar now had a matching gouge on the other side of his shoulder. Blood mixed with dirt to fill the wound, causing it to gape wider. She wiped his back clean, blood flaking off like rust, dusting her hands with coppery slivers.  
  
Emma knelt and spoke in his ear. “Don’t you dare think of leavin’ me and Florabel now,” she said. “We need you, Dean.” She surveyed the dusty, muddy kitchen as the tang of tears pulled behind her eyes. “Please stay.” Her voice hitched. “Your family needs you.” She turned away and sobbed into her hands. After a moment she stopped and looked at Dean, having found what inner strength she needed to fight. “You’ll stay.” She snuffled, her jaw set and defiant. “I know you will.” She rose and took the pot of steaming water off the stove and began cleaning his wound.

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Ellen parked the car in front of the small, idyllic farmhouse surrounded by a large, well-tended yard. Staked signs with bright slogans dotted the grass: ‘ _Think Green_ ’, ‘ _Say No To GMO’s_ ’, ‘ _Corporate Dropout_ ’ and Ellen’s favorite, ‘ _Eat Right, Exercise, Die Healthy!’_  
  
“Oh Lordy.” She chuckled under her breath. “Probably one of them health-nuts that run marathons well into their 80’s.” She turned up her collar and tucked her chin into her jacket, her breath smoking against the cold rain. Jogging to the house, she rang the bell and waited. After getting no response, she rang a second time.  
  
“Quit it, already! Give an old lady a moment!” Ellen heard the muffled malediction from behind the door. When it opened with a lurch, Ellen was surprised to see the voice belonged to a petit, spry elderly woman, eyes sparking with indignation. “Y’think I’m deaf, do ya? Gotta ring several times?”  
  
“No ma’am,” Ellen said, cowed…and amused. “I’m looking for…” she began, but the old woman cut her off and laid into her.  
  
“I told them other fellers from Monsanto they could kiss my ass,” she barked. “An’ I’m tellin’ you the same thing. I ain’t plantin’ your damn seeds on purpose. If’n they don’t want them freaks ‘a nature to go airborne and take root amidst innocent people’s crops then they should Frankenstein them things to stay put in their own damn fields. It ain’t like they haven’t jerry-rigged their genetics in all other respects. Goddamned vultures! I don’t even want yer damn seeds in m’field. Them mutants is contaminatin’ my clean crops. Now git the hell off m’property. Sue me if’n you want, but I’ll fight you pricks to my last dyin’ breath! Just watch an’ see if I don’t!”  
  
Ellen had a hard time keeping a straight face. This old thing was a spitfire, and she liked her immediately. “I’m not with Mons…Monsn…whatever you just said.” She held her hand up as the old woman grabbed the door, making ready to slam it shut. “I’m looking for Mad Dog. Is he here?”  
  
“You ain’t with Monsanto?” The old woman looked Ellen up and down. “What d’you want, then?”  
  
Ellen hesitated. “Um, I’m with the Oklahoma Historical Society. I’m working on a survey. I was told the old farmstead by the airport where they’re building the new mall used to be owned by Mad Dog. I wanted to get some information from him on the old place. Is he your husband?”  
  
“ _Him_? _Husband_?” The old lady hooted. “They ain’t no ‘him’ and they ain’t no ‘husband’ ‘round here, honey. They’s only just me.”  
  
“You’re Mad Dog?”  
  
“Don’t you _Mad Dog_ me, never did much care for that nickname. Historical Society, huh? Well, I reckon you can come on in, then.” She opened the screen door and stood back so Ellen could enter.  
  
“You prefer ‘Doc’, then?” Ellen suggested as she moved inside.  
  
“Oh hell, just call me by my given name.” She closed the door and pointed to the parlor. “I’m Florabel—Florabel Livingston.”


	15. Talking Dust Bowl Blues

__

_April 15, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Emma draped her shawl over Florabel and scooped her off the bed where she’d been sleeping next to Dean. She sat with her in the rocking chair, needing the feel of her daughter’s weight on her, craving the beat of her small heart against her own. Dean must have perceived Florabel’s sudden absence because he mumbled angrily and tried to reach out until the restraints stopped him. He muttered his brother’s name a couple of times before falling back into a fitful sleep.  
  
It was just after 9:00am and Emma sighed, sitting for the first time since the storm had ended. The house was still a disaster, but she and Jeb had done everything they could without collapsing themselves. They’d sewn Dean’s shoulder, made a poultice, washed him, and rinsed his eyes one last time. Then they’d slathered both Florabel and Dean with skunk oil and turpentine. Now, they could only wait and hope their lungs cleared without infection setting in.  
  
Florabel twitched and whimpered, her eyes darting back and forth under her lids, lost in a nightmare of wind and dirt, no doubt. Emma held her tight and patted her.  
  
“Mama…” Florabel murmured, settling down without ever having fully roused, passing from nightmare to dream with a sigh.  
  
Emma tucked the girl’s small, pink foot under the shawl and rocked her, humming.  
  
The front door opened, and Emma heard Jeb’s wearied gait as he made his way to the bedroom. He came in and set down the bucket of water he carried. Leaning against the doorway, he nodded to Emma as she met his eyes. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he did speak his voice scraped like dry leaves on tree bark.  
  
“The chickens is all dead.” He paused. “Penny, too.” He gave her the bad news, unable to soften the blow. “The door to the barn didn’t git closed proper, but it wouldn’t ‘a made a whit ‘a difference. Weren’t no way Penny would ‘a lived. The dust would ‘a found a way in no matter what. The barn ain’t weathered for that type of storm.”  
  
Emma didn’t respond. She cast her eyes on her daughter and continued to rock, acknowledging the catastrophe with a simple nod. Jeb came into the room and sat in the other chair with a tired groan.  
  
“I’m sorry, Em.”  
  
She looked from Florabel to Dean and then back to Jeb. “We’s all alive.” More rocking. “Animals can be replaced.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Emma tossed away his concern with a wisp of a shrug. “We’ll think of somethin’.”  
  
Jeb watched a single tear fall over the lip of her eyelid and spill down her cheek.  
  
“You need sleep.”  
  
She said nothing, wiping her face surreptitiously. With Penny and the chickens gone, they had nothing but old, molding sacks of wheat and cornmeal to live on. Her chin quivered until she bit her cheek to steady it.  
  
“So do you.” She deflected his concern, regarding him with red-rimmed eyes.  
  
He nodded. Standing, he rubbed his sore lower back. “Boy’s heavy.” He smiled ruefully. “Need me some liniment.”  
  
“I’ll rub you down in a bit,” Emma offered, but Jeb waved her off.  
  
“Ain’t no need for that, Em. Others need you more.” He gave his back another squeeze before moving toward the window. Removing the dry sheet that hung there, he placed it in the bucket of water. “Everything’s either stripped bare by the wind or buried up to its eyeballs in dust.” He pointed outside and shook his head. “Ain’t no one could believe that cloud was real when we saw it a-comin’ yesterday. They called off the search right then and there an’ sent us to the church to ride out the storm.”  
  
Emma stopped rocking. “Search? What search?”  
  
“Oh, Em,” Jeb shifted from the window, “I forgot to tell you with everything that happened.” He checked to make sure Florabel was still asleep. “Little Lizzy Crawford,” he lowered his voice, “she done disappeared after the dance on Saturday. Her mama sent her up to the house for bed, but she was gone when Pauline went to tuck her in.”  
  
“My God!” Emma’s eyes hinged wide. “She was there when we left. Why would anyone take her?” Her chin began to shake as she readjusted Florabel in her arms. She kissed her daughter and stroked her hair, all the more precious now.  
  
“Dunno as anyone did for sure. She might ‘a wandered off, she might ‘a not. Ain’t no way to know for sure until they find her. Weren’t no locks broken nor anything upset inside the house. Nobody saw nothin’. She just disappeared.”  
  
“Dear God, poor Pauline.” Emma’s chest heaved. “She must be heartbroke.”  
  
“She is.” Jeb pulled the sheet from the bucket and wrung it out. “I was gonna go back today and help, but they ain’t no point. If’n she was lost outside…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. “’Sides,” he went on, “I’m needed here. An’ you need to take a nap, Em. You cain’t go on like this. You’s done in.”  
  
“I’m all right.”  
  
“You’s a liar,” he said, hanging the sheet. “You git some rest. I’m gonna git this here sheet hung and then go stew us a couple of them chickens. Least we can do is git a few good meals from ‘em. Gonna make us some cornbread. We all need to eat so’s we can git through this travail. You go on an’ git a wink, doll.” He turned to press the point, but there was no need. Emma was fast asleep.

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Florabel closed the door behind her. “Sorry about cussin’ atcha.” She led Ellen through the house and into a quaint country kitchen. “Those bastards who sell them genetic monstrosities they call seeds are so evil, when the wind blows their seeds into innocent folks’ fields, they sue the farmers for what the wind brung. Been fighting them for a couple ‘a years. Ain’t got no tolerance for ‘em.”  
  
“That’s all right.” Ellen smiled, glancing around. “So, you’re a farmer? I was told you were the doctor around these parts for a long time.”  
  
“That’s right. Came home right out’a medical school and did my residency here. Was a doctor and a farmer for near on forty years until I retired in ’93. Still volunteer a couple days a month at the day clinic. And I still farm somewhat. Been _Certified Organic_ for the past ten years, thank you very much. Raise grass-fed beef, too. Course I got a couple’a young folks who do most of the actual work these days.” Florabel pointed to the kettle. “You ain’t too busy y’cain’t have a cup of tea with an old woman. Now, sit yourself down an’ you can ask me what y’want in a moment.”  
  
Ellen grinned and nodded. She continued to look around as Florabel busied herself with making tea. The kitchen had all the trappings of a long life, old photographs perched among the pleasant clutter on the antique hutch. Ellen smiled at one with a much younger version of the doctor, probably taken in the ‘50’s judging by the hairstyles and clothing. Florabel was feeding a baby in a highchair, both mother and child turned to the camera with matching yucky faces.  
  
“Becoming a doctor way back then as a woman must have been very challenging.” Ellen brushed her fingers over a large glass jar filled with vintage marbles. “How’d you manage that?”  
  
Florabel set the kettle on the stove. “It was. But I had good folks around me who encouraged me. Someone once said if’n I went and did what I wanted with my life, I’d be fifty years ahead of all them other girls. And see? They was right.”  
  
Ellen continued to scan the old photos. Most were of the same child she’d seen in the first picture in various stages of growth through the years. “Your daughter?” Ellen nodded to the snapshot.  
  
Florabel came over. “That’s my baby girl.” She dusted the frame. “She’s a doctor in Oklahoma City. Cain’t be no prouder.”  
  
Ellen noticed dual certificates for both mother and daughter physicians from _Doctors Without Borders_. “And your husband?” Ellen asked, lifting an eyebrow.  
  
“Don’t got none. Never did.” Florabel snorted at Ellen’s surprised face. “I ain’t a lesbian. I just weren’t too lucky in love.” She chuckled, though her eyes went soft and sad before she stowed it away.  
  
“Wow. Being a single mother back then? That had to have been rough.”  
  
The old woman shrugged. “Dunno. Not no more or less than other folks, I reckon. Everyone’s got their own stories. I ain’t no different. Only thing that makes this one special is the fact that it’s mine. Don’t mean much beyond that.” She poured the hot water into two large mugs. “’Sides, I was just fifty years ahead of all them other girls. And we made out all right just the two of us. Though,” she handed Ellen the mug with a Mona Lisa smile, eyebrows dancing “I weren’t a nun. I did have company from time to time.”  
  
Ellen laughed. “You go, girl.” She took a sip of the hot tea. “And the name _Mad Dog_?”  
  
Florabel rolled her eyes. “That nickname was a ‘gift’ from the men of this town when I first started doctorin’ folks.”  
  
“ _Mad Dog_? Really?” Ellen blew on her tea. “Did you go around biting their shins or something?”  
  
Florabel laughed. “No. They just didn’t want t’call me a ‘bitch’ to my face. I was a young _M.D._ They thought they was bein’ clever with the initials, like I was too dumb to figure it out.”  
  
“You’re kidding me.”  
  
“Oh don’t worry, honey,” Florabel tipped her mug to Ellen’s, clinking them together. “I made damn good an’ sure I earned the nickname fair an’ square. An’ for the worst of them chauvinists, I would always snicker through their hernia exams.” She wiggled her pinky. “That usually shut them up.”  
  
“Florabel, honey,” Ellen quirked her eyebrow in awe, “you are a woman after my own heart.”

* *

_April 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel twisted the ties of her nightgown and fretted, bored and anxious. Her mama’d put her to bed a hundred years ago, or so it seemed, and she wouldn’t let her get up or get dressed. At first it had felt good to sleep, and Florabel didn’t remember much about yesterday at all. It was already after suppertime when she woke. Her mama had called her a lazy sleepyhead, but Florabel could tell she wasn’t really mad at her. In fact, her mama had been extra gentle, kissing every scratch and cut she’d gotten during the storm before painting the wounds with iodine. That’d hurt a lot, but her mama held her hand the whole time.

She’d had nothing to do but watch dust motes drift across a shaft of sunlight that snuck in between the window and the sheet covering it, but that was only interesting for so long. She rolled over and put the stethoscope Pally had given her into her ears. Old Jeb had found it in the barn where Pally left it, forgotten when the storm hit. Dust had ruined the candy, but her marbles and medical kit were still as good as new after a dusting. She listened to Pally’s heart while he slept. He was hot and twitchy. It scared her to see him so sick.

He’d already had a fever by the time she woke yesterday. Her mama had told her he’d breathed in so much dirt that he’d gotten Dust Pneumonia. Florabel’d cried hard because that’s what her papa and Henry had died of, and she was terrified Pally would die, too. But her mama hugged her and told her to be strong and brave, and she was really trying to be.

Of course, her mama was just as worried, maybe more. She tended him with sad, frightened eyes. She looked at Dean the way she’d looked at Florabel’s papa when he was sick. So, Florabel knew things were bad.

It wasn’t just the Dust Pneumonia. So much dust got in his eyes during the storm he couldn’t see right. They were red and swollen, leaking sticky tears that dried into a crust, sealing his lids shut. Her mama had to keep wiping the edges ever so gently with a warm, wet cloth so they would stay unglued. Florabel knew they must be itchy and sore, because her Mama and Jeb tied Pally’s hands to keep him from rubbing them. It was all he wanted to do, and that was the one thing that would hurt them the most.

Everyone tried to tell him so, but his fever made him so confused he didn’t always know what you were saying to him. There was even one time he seemed to understand, and he’d begged her mama to let his hands loose, promising he wouldn’t touch his eyes. But not a half hour later he’d completely forgotten everything he’d promised and tried to rub them, so her mama had him tied up good and tight, and after that she didn’t let him go no matter how much he begged.

It wasn’t at all like his last fever. Last time he’d been quiet for days, and when he did make sounds, he only moaned a lot. This time he coughed all the time and talked near non-stop. Sometimes he’d hear what you said to him and he’d talk to you like he knew who you were, would answer your questions. Then, without warning, he’d start shivering and talking complete nonsense. Often times, he’d get mad. Really mad. And he’d swear at you, thinking you were someone else. He would forget why he was tied and he’d think he was being held prisoner.

When her mama dusted the room she’d tied a rag around Pally’s mouth to keep the dust away, but he swore at her. He thought she was someone named ‘Meg’, and he said such awful things to her mama that she’d left the room crying. She’d worn herself out working so hard to make him well. Florabel’d never seen her mama so tired before. She was fit to drop, and being called a _black-eyed bitch_ had upset her. Florabel supposed whatever a _bitch_ was it must not be very nice.

Old Jeb kept reminding them Pally didn’t know what he was sayin’ and to not take his babblings to heart. He’d even grinned and called him ‘creative’ after one exceptionally long outburst. But it didn’t make the words sting less. A bite was a bite, no matter if the dog was aiming for your leg or someone else’s, Florabel reckoned. Her mama tended him without saying much, but he was bad, bad off.

Florabel stretched. She wanted to get up, but with her mama so upset, she’d only get in trouble. So she lay there and listened to Pally talk to himself until the door opened.  
  
Her mama slipped inside with some fresh skunk oil and turpentine and began rubbing it on Pally’s chest. He grimaced and tugged at his ties, but he quieted when her mama whispered to him. He didn’t call her any mean names this time, and Florabel knew her mama was relieved.  
  
“Mama,” Florabel sucked languidly on her nightgown tie, “what’s a _fuckwad douchenozzle_?”  
  
Her mama’s eyes grew cavernous. “I don’t know, but don’t you be sayin’ it, young lady. I don’t want to hear that agin.”  
  
“Pally said it, not me.” Florabel popped the tie from her mouth, defending herself. “I just wanted to know what it was.”  
  
“Don’t need to know,” she said. “We ain’t gonna pay no mind to what he says. He’s delirious. He don’t know what he’s sayin’, so ain’t none of us gonna repeat those words, you hear me?”  
  
“Yes, Mama.”  
  
Jeb interrupted further discussion when he strode in holding a newspaper.  
  
“Got this from the Haffner’s when I went to borrow the truck.” He waved the newspaper at Emma. “By the way, they said we could keep it for a few days, until we don’t need it.”  
  
He sat in the rocking chair while Emma continued to apply paste to Dean’s chest. Jeb waved the paper to try and deflect the smell away from him.  
  
“Lord ‘a mercy!” He opened the newspaper, still choking. “You should see this, Em. They’s callin’ the entire Panhandle a disaster area. _Black Sunday_ , they’s callin’ the storm. Some AP boys was stuck in it about six miles outside of Boise City and sent in this report. Listen to this: _Three little words achingly familiar on a Western farmer’s tongue, rule life in the dust bowl of the continent – if it rains._ Huh,” he scanned the paper, musing, “ _Dust bowl_. Ain’t that fittin’?”  
  
Emma looked up, disinterested, barely comprehending what he said. She put her hand to Dean’s forehead and closed her eyes against the worry.  
  
“He’s burnin’ up and his chest is full.” She reached into her apron and pressed a small wad of cash into Jeb’s hand. “Give it to Doc Dawson. It’s all I got, what Dean gave me and what I had left from the cattle slaughter. Fetch him, Jeb. Please.”  
  
The old man put his hand to Emma’s cheek. “I ain’t givin’ him everything you got. He’ll come for a fair price.” He glanced at Dean twisting and turning as he yanked on the cords tying him down. “He ain’t Red, Emma. I know you’s scared. Be brave, doll. I’ll go fetch Doc.”  
  
“Mama, can I go with Old Jeb? I ain’t sick. Please?” Florabel hopped on her knees. She wanted nothing more than to get out of bed. Her bruises and scrapes were healing, and, thanks to Dean, she hadn’t breathed in enough dust to get infected.  
  
“We’ll be in the truck.” Jeb shrugged at Emma before she could say no. “We ain’t gonna be gone long, Em. Do her good to git out just a bit. The wind ain’t so bad today, and they already cleared the road of drifts all the way into town.”  
  
Emma waffled a few seconds then sighed. “All right.” She caught Florabel as she leapt from the bed. “Please hurry. He needs medicine. I cain’t help him this time. Ain’t no poultice can fix this.”  
  
“Come on then, Miss Doodlebug. Let’s git you dressed and fetch Doc Dawson.” Jeb picked up Florabel. “We won’t be gone long, Em. Don’t worry. Y’ain’t gonna lose him, darlin’. He ain’t gonna leave his girls, no how. He’s stayin’ right here with us.”

* *

Overheated and slick with anticipation, Slaid watched the truck drive away from the farmhouse. He’d been watching and waiting for this opportunity. The Hala had come when he called, had released its catastrophic energy on the land and filled Slaid with power. It sparked and tingled through him. The young Crawford girl had been a worthy offering. Now, he had only to go claim his property, trammel it, and enjoy playing with it whenever he wanted. They would belong to him body and soul with a simple command. He was sure of it.  
  
Walking around the barn he found the backdoor blocked by a massive drift. Wind swished over the mound and roof, dragging ribbons of sand into the air then collapsing into a light rain of grit that ticked against the side of the house. Defeated by the drift, he made his way to the front door and crept in. Padding through the kitchen, he saw Emma come from the bedroom where the _Ördög_ Fighter slept. He looked past her and saw Dean lying on the bed, bound at the wrists. Slaid’s dick jolted and eyes shot up in wonder.  
  
Emma put her finger to her lips, demanding quiet. “He’s sick.” She shut the bedroom door. “He got caught in the storm and his eyes is scratched and he’s feverish with Dust Pneumonia. Jeb went to fetch the doctor to come see him.” She stopped short, eying Slaid up and down, as if realizing for the first time who she was addressing. “What is you doin’ here?” Her words came out angry and harsh.  
  
Slaid was done playing nice, though. He no longer needed to; the Hala had given him all the power he’d ever need, certainly power enough to break one harpy.  
  
“I came for you.” He smiled slow and satisfied. “And the little whore.”  
  
Emma’s mouth hinged wide and her eyes blazed. “Excuse me?” Her words blistered with dry fury. “How dare you say such a thing! What are you talking about?”  
  
Slaid gripped her arm. “I dare because you and the little one are mine, now.”  
  
“Are you a lunatic?” Emma’s anger turned pyroclastic, and she pulled her arm back. He reached for her again, but she slapped him across the face. “Git out’a this house! I don’t know what you think you’s doin’ here, but you ain’t welcome here no more.”  
  
She stood her ground saying things no woman had a right to say to a man. How could this be? She went on as though the Hala didn’t exist.  
  
“I want you to collect your things from the bunkhouse and you git.” She pointed to the door and pushed him toward it.  
  
Too shocked to put the bitch in her place, Slaid wavered a moment, his confidence broken. “No!” He gasped, confused by her ability to withstand the Hala’s power. “No! This is not supposed to happen. You both belong to me.”  
  
The woman’s mouth went wide at that. “Not supposed to happen? Belong to you?” Emma pushed him out and slammed the screen door, watching him through the mesh with cold eyes. “How could you ever think any such thing? I ain’t your woman and Florabel ain’t your girl. And we ain’t never gonna be.” She took a few breaths and calmed. “I’m sorry if’n you ever thought otherwise or I done something to make you think they was somethin’ between us.” She waffled a moment. “You…you git on now, Slaid. I cain’t have you comin’ around here no more.”  
  
Slaid backed down the porch steps, confounded. No way would the Hala deny him after everything he’d done. He’d provided a worthy offering. He’d even left it unsullied despite his own cravings at the time. Why would the Hala deny him the only two people that mattered? Slaid ran into the barn and lifted the trapdoor, descending into the root cellar.  
  
“You promised me.” He cleared the altar with a swipe of his arm, snarling. “Why?” Tears streamed into his stubble. “I done everything. _Everything._ ” Collapsing to the floor in a fetal heap, he cried and sniveled. “Mama…you said Hala granted power to rule…to own. You said it.”  
  
Slaid thought of the night he’d first summoned the demon, the night the _Ördög_ Fighter arrived. Something had twisted things; the Hala had given the Devil Fighter the power, not him. The women had flocked to the Devil Fighter, had doted on him at every turn. He had mocked him, disrespected him, then stolen his women. Slaid hated him for it.  
  
The farmhand thought a moment and smiled. The _Ördög_ Fighter lay tied up, probably delirious. Helpless. Slaid rubbed his growing hard-on. He knew how to win the Hala’s favor and power. Standing, he picked up the bowls and bits of burned herbs and placed them on the altar.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Slaid kissed the bloody runes. “I understand, now. Slaid will prove to you that he’s worthy.” Surely the Hala would transfer the power to him once he’d vanquished the usurper.

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“So, you wanted to ask me about the old farmstead?” Florabel ventured, sipping her tea.  
  
“Uh, yes.” Ellen set down her cup. “I’ve been there recently and they’ve been having some set-backs with the construction of the new mall, have you heard?”  
  
“Really? I didn’t know, but I tend to let news sit these days. I been fighting to keep myself out’a court with that devil pesticide company.” She stood at the window, glancing over her fields. “I hope the delay on the new mall ain’t too long. I heard tell they was gonna build a TCBY there. Been lookin’ forward to some frozen yogurt.”  
  
Ellen’s eyes followed Florabel. “Yeah, some of the workers there have had some accidents. One of them, Matt Crawford, said it was a ghost that pushed him off the roof.”  
  
Florabel turned. “Matt? He all right?”  
  
“He’s fine. Broke a leg, but he’s fine.”  
  
“He’s a good boy—like a nephew to me.” Florabel sat down again. “I delivered him. Weighed almost 9lbs. Big, healthy chunk of a baby. You say he seen a ghost?”  
  
“That’s what he says, yes. Said a ghost and a big black cyclone knocked him off the roof. He’s okay, though.”  
  
Florabel blanched. “What did you say? A cyclone?”  
  
Ellen nodded. “That ring a bell with you?”  
  
“Oh my God.” Florabel’s hands went to her mouth as she spoke, stammering. “I—I didn’t—I wouldn’t ‘a sold the land had I known it was still—that he was still there.” Florabel got up and roamed the kitchen like a caged leopard.  
  
“Dr. Livingston? What do you know about it?”  
  
Florabel paused, wringing her hands. “It’s been more’n seventy years.” She move again, pacing. “I ain’t been there since—since everything happened. I wouldn’t ‘a sold it if I’d known. I sold most of the other farmland decades ago, back when I was studying to be a doctor. Always kept the plot that the house and barn had been on, though. Sentimental value, I reckon. I wouldn’t never live there again, not after…” She swallowed and rubbed her neck anxiously. “The airport folks made a good offer, so I finally let it go. I’d never a-sold that land if’n I thought it was dangerous.”  
  
“What happened there, Florabel?”  
  
Florabel blinked, embarrassed and distracted. “You wouldn’t believe me.” She wrung her hands. “No one ever did.”  
  
Ellen gripped the old woman’s shoulders. “Try me. I know it’s hard to believe, but I might be able to help.”  
  
“Help? How could you possibly—?” A thought struck her, and she eyed the younger woman suspiciously. “You ain’t with the Historical Society are you?”  
  
Ellen sighed. “No. I’m sorry. I’m here to help, though, you have to believe me.”  
  
“Has anyone else been hurt? Ain’t no one been killed has they?”  
  
“A few other boys, but no worse than Matt. No one’s died. Not yet. But one of my friends is missing. We’re trying to find him, so we need to know everything that might have happened on that land, any tragedies or strange deaths.”  
  
Florabel eyes filled with tears. “Lots’a people died there. That land was homesteaded by my great grandfather. Whole families died on that land.” She rubbed her forehead. “But some things happened when I was a child. Things I don’t want to recall.” She paused again. “Bad things.”  
  
“Anything you can tell me would be a great help. My friend’s life is in danger. Did anyone die on that land who had call to be angry?”  
  
“I seen that Cyclone.” Florabel’s eyes were far away. “I seen it once, so long ago, but I remember like it was yesterday.” She pointed to an old photograph on the wall. “It happened in 1935, during the height of the Dust Bowl, not too long after Black Sunday.”  
  
She looked at the photo and caressed the image of three people standing in front of an old farmhouse, connecting with them in her own way. Ellen came alongside her and placed a gentle hand on the old woman’s shoulder.  
  
“Do you think you can tell me about—” She did a double take as she looked at the picture. She moved closer, squinting. “Do you mind?” She took the photo off the wall without waiting for an answer. Moving to the window, her eyes bugged.  
  
“You look like you seen a ghost. What is it, honey?” Florabel asked.  
  
Ellen turned the photograph around and read the childlike writing:  
  
 _Mama, Pally, and me—Apr. 14, 1935_  
  
“This was taken in 1935?”  
  
“On my eighth birthday, the day of the black blizzard. Black Sunday.” Florabel nodded. “It started out as one of the happiest days of my life. Ended a whole different way, though.”  
  
Ellen continued studying the photo in shock, reading the back again. “Pally?”  
  
“He was a friend.” Florabel shot her a glance. “The best I ever had,” she added, her tone soft and quiet.  
  
“Pally?” Ellen repeated, still staring at the photo.  
  
“Well, it wasn’t his real name,” Florabel said. “It’s just what I called him. His name was Dean. Dean…” She hesitated for a moment, remembering. “Dean Hetfield.” She grabbed the frame from Ellen when the younger woman lost her grip on it. “What?” Florabel asked. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“One moment.” Ellen grabbed her cell phone with a shaky hand and pressed a button. “Sam, honey, you and Bobby stop what you’re doing and get to Mad Dog’s right away. I have a lead on Dean. Hurry.” She disconnected and the two women gaped at one another, each absorbing different shocks.  
  
“D—did you…” Florabel stuttered. “Did you say _Sam_?”

* *

 _April 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Stealing into the house, Slaid eased the door shut so the bitch wouldn’t hear. He needed to finish before the little whore and old man returned with the doctor. Floorboards creaked above him. The woman was upstairs, tending to a quick chore, no doubt. Making use of the moment, Slaid slipped into the kitchen and down the hallway.  
  
Opening the bedroom door, a slow, fell smile creased his face. The Devil Fighter lay bound at the wrists, hitching and jerking, lost in some dark, troubling dream. Slaid closed the door and approached the bed. Kneeling, he rubbed himself, blood shooting straight to his dick at the sight of the delirious man—so beautiful, fever hot and moist with sweat. Soon the Devil Fighter would belong to Slaid forever. The farmhand stripped off the blankets, leaving Dean naked except for his light shorts. Placing a hand on his forehead, he drank in the sight, listening to his exquisite moans.  
  
“Sam…?” Dean fussed in his sleep. “Sammy?” His lashes fluttered open, squinting against the light in the room. His eyes, red and wet, drooped, falling shut as he grimaced and coughed. “Nhuhnn, Sammy!” he called, his nightmares bleeding into reality.  
  
Slaid breathed him in like a connoisseur, savoring the young man’s confusion and weakened state. He raked a hand through his own greasy hair and licked his lips. Giving into temptation, he slithered his other hand into the sick man’s shorts and fondled him. Dean’s lids flew open, arms snapping as his bonds interrupted the savage punch he meant to throw.  
  
“Wh’th’fuck?!” His sightless eyes searched the room in dizzying sweeps. The action appeared to sicken him. He closed his lids and swallowed. “Fuckin’ get off!”  
  
The Devil Fighter pivoted, kicking his feet as he wrenched against his tethers. Slaid bit into Dean’s groin with brittle twig-like fingers, his jagged, dirty nails penetrating tender flesh as far as they were able. He clamped his other knobby hand over Dean’s mouth, his muffled cries of agony making Slaid’s swollen cock ache.  
  
“Make more noise, Devil Fighter, and I’ll pinch more than gristle.” He bent close to Dean’s ear and licked it. “Go on, keep struggling. I like it so much better that way.”  
  
Dean breathed erratically through his nose. Retching against Slaid’s hand, he fell still, squinting and blinking as he strove to focus. Slaid released his hand over Dean’s mouth.  
  
“Soap and water. It does a body good, asswipe.” The Devil Fighter gasped, coughing up a lungful of dirt. He worked to suck in some cleaner air before going on. “Slaid, Y’fucker. Y’summoned a demon, didn’cha? Y’did this. All of it. Y’brought me here, didn’ you?”  
  
Forgetting his errand, Slaid indulged himself in the thrill of domination. He pulled his hand from Dean’s shorts and rubbed his hand around and around on top of the fabric, stroking, fondling, trying to get the Devil Fighter’s flaccid dick to stir. “Mmm, no. I didn’t bring you here. You came to steal Hala’s power from me. I want it back.”  
  
“Get’cher fuckn hands off me. An’ yer not just a fool, yer a raving nutjob.” Devil Fighter squirmed, trying to get away from his roaming hand. “Elemental demons—you tool—they don’ give you power ‘cept to direct ‘em where to go. Wha’ were y’spectin’ to gain?”  
  
The farmhand continued to rub against Dean. Bending close, he licked a clammy trail up his chest, stopping when he reached his nipple. His tongue slithered like an eel, around and around. The sick man shuddered with disgust and rage.  
  
“I want the little _wh—whore_.” Slaid’s breath hitched and he ticked twice, suppressing an orgasmic shudder. He breathed in and out until the threat of release passed. “She’s mine. You took her from me. How many times have you dipped in? Does she scream as deliciously for you as she did for me? How many times has she opened her legs for you?”  
  
Devil Fighter bucked, trying to squirm out from under him. His Adam’s apple bobbed as Slaid’s tongue worked its way up and over it, licking and gnawing. The Devil Fighter’s lip curled in a sneer under Slaid’s tongue.  
  
“Wha’ are y’wearin’?” he asked.  
  
The question threw Slaid. He removed his hand from Dean’s groin and sat up. “Wearing?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said, “was jus’ wonderin’ if you’re wearin’ your red shirt and overalls.” Dean blinked his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. “I see red, so I’m thinkin’ yeah, m’I right?”  
  
Slaid glanced at his red shirt, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”  
  
“Well, see,” Devil Fighter smiled at him with one cheek, “I know ‘li’l somethin’ you don’.”  
  
“What’s that, Devil Fighter?” Slaid bent in close.  
  
“I know what y’look like as a ghost.” He snickered at Slaid. “An’ m’happy to say, y’ain’t gettin’ much older, fucktard.”  
  
Slaid growled, his retort cut off when the floorboards in the hall creaked under the bitch’s approaching footsteps. He’d wasted time playing with the man. It would have been nice to keep him, but his mission came first. He looked around and grabbed the bottle of Laudanum, opened it, and forced it between Dean’s teeth, letting a good third of the bottle slide in before pinching Dean’s mouth and nose shut with all of his strength.  
  
Dean struggled wildly, biting his hand, but Slaid only grunted with pleasure. A coughing fit forced him to swallow the drug to avoid aspirating. Before Slaid could gloat, the bitch opened the door. She blinked in surprise seeing Slaid there, his hand clapped over the Devil Fighter’s mouth.  
  
“What are you…?” She noticed the bottle in Slaid’s hand then the brown liquid running down the Devil Fighter’s chin. “What have you done?”  
  
“Eased the Devil Fighter’s pain.” He set the bottle on the nightstand and shrugged innocently.  
  
“You’s lyin’.” She moved toward the end of the bed. “I want you out’a this house this instant.” She spoke with confidence, but that delicious flinch she gave when he rose betrayed her bravado. “You go on.”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere.” He smiled, watching her shiver. So beautiful. So fearful. “This is my house. You are my property, and the little whore is my toy.” The Devil Fighter coughed and tried to break his bonds. “Once the Devil Fighter is gone, you will see. You love me like you love him, and you will be happy.”  
  
Emma moved, situating herself by the chest of drawers. “That ain’t never gonna happen.” Her eyes flitted to Dean as he called her name.  
  
“Emma, run.” Dean coughed some of the brown muck and gagged on it. “Get out,” He struggled gracelessly to free his hands.  
  
Emma ignored him. Moving quickly, she opened the chest of drawers and drew Jeb’s gun, pointing it at the farmhand. “Git out or I’ll shoot. I swear to God I will.” Slaid saw her fear, but he also saw her desperation. He knew she meant what she said.  
  
He tried to reason with her. “He’s made you care for him. He’s stolen you from me.” The words came out a childish plea. “Once he’s gone you will see. You will see Slaid and want him.” He thumped his chest and growled, but the woman pointed to the door.  
  
“Git out. If you ever come near me or my family, I’ll kill you.” Her hand steadied as she looked down the sights, drawing bead. Slaid saw his peril. He moved—his hands raised in the air.  
  
The woman followed him to the front door. On the porch, he turned. “I don’t need you. I only ever really wanted the little whore.” He sniffed, bowing low. “I’ll leave you to the Devil Fighter. But,” he chuckled, “medicine works fast. You’ll see.” He slammed his fist against screen door, screaming at the bitch. “Medicine works very, very fast!”

**

Emma’s hands trembled as she slammed and locked the door, fumbling twice before snapping the rusty lock into place on the third try. Running to the backdoor, she locked that as well, despite the large drift blocking the door.  
  
“Dean!” She ran to the bedroom, setting the gun on the stand and falling to her knees by the bed. “Dean!” She shook him.  
  
“Mmm a’righ’,” he mumbled and coughed feebly. “Sam?” Emma picked up the bottle and measured how much he’d been forced to drink.  
  
“Dear God,” she said, horrified and shook him again. “Wake up, Dean.” His lids slitted briefly but then closed. “Don’t go to sleep! Dean! Stay with me!” she begged, but he didn’t answer.


	16. Mean Things Happenin' In This World

__

_April 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Emma’s heart pounded in her ears as she ran for the Syrup of Ipecac, praying it wasn’t too late.  Her perception of time had upended the moment she’d walked in on Slaid; there was no way to judge how much had lapsed since then.  She’d lived an entire lifetime since pointing the gun at Slaid.  Running back, she knelt by Dean and shook him, encouraged that he fought against her when she tried to pour the Ipecac into his mouth. He was incoherent, but his reflexes still worked.  Tugging at his bonds, he continued to fight Slaid in his mind, determined to keep his mouth closed. 

“Mmnhgh!” He craned his neck to get as far away from the bottle as he could.

“Dean.”  She gripped his jaw.  “It’s Emma.  You need to swaller this.  It tastes bad, but it’ll bring up the Laudanum.”  Whether he understood or whether he was too tired to fight, he stopped struggling and gulped the miserable concoction.   

It didn’t take long for the Ipecac to take effect—all over Emma, all over the bedding and all over Dean himself—several times, until nothing but bile and dirt came up.  The projectile vomiting set off a harsh coughing fit, leaving Dean beet-red and gasping.  He passed out soon after, and Emma sat in stunned silence, surrounded by vomit, trying to stop the shaking in her hands long enough to recap the bottle.  Her breath came in catches and gasps, and as she rose to strip the soiled bedding off Dean, her legs shuddered and wobbled, forcing her to kneel back down to keep from falling.  

Before she could steady herself, she heard voices on the front porch. Jeb and Florabel had returned with Doc Dawson. Adrenaline sent out the impulse to leap up, to run to them, but her body refused to respond, her extremities numb and rigid.

“Emma?” She heard Jeb knock on the door and call from far, far away. “Emma? Why’s the door locked?”

She had no recollection of rising, didn’t remember making her way through the hall and kitchen, but she found herself walking into the parlor as though she had huge clown feet attached to her legs instead of her small shoes. She picked up each foot with deliberate, clunky footfalls, stumbling through the room on knees that refused to hinge. Growling in her throat, she tried to tell them she was coming, but nothing intelligible came out.

Doc Dawson’s and Jeb’s worried faces squinted through the window. Unlocking and opening the door with senseless hands was tricky business, but she managed it. Without a word, she swayed, walking away chaotically, legs lurching as though she had flippers on, teeth rattling together. Jeb caught her by the arm and swung her toward him. She saw his mouth moving, but the sound of her heartbeat drowned out the words. The world tunneled toward his lips, and she became fascinated by his tongue as it flipped and flopped at her. She tried to poke it with her finger, but she found herself floating toward the ground. It was so odd to see everyone peering at her with such fear and distress, because she never felt better. She was warm and comfortable as the darkness descended.

* *

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel’s hands trembled as she opened the door to Bobby and Sam. Unable to get her brain and mouth working in tandem, she stood there gaping at Sam. Her tongue flapped a couple of useless times before she gave up.

Ellen wasted no time time, however, grabbing Sam by the arm and leading both hunters into the kitchen. Florabel followed them and took a chair, watching the trio but Sam most of all. Her eyes continually returned to him.

“What’s going on, Ellen?” Sam leaned against the counter, nervous and expectant.

“Boys, I need you to keep your heads, now.” She approached Sam, arms raised. “We got a lot of work ahead of us, and we ain’t got time for hysterics.”

“Then you might want to skip the hysterics yourself and tell us what you found,” Bobby said.

Ellen’s eyes twitched from Bobby to Sam, and she took a steadying breath. “Just stay calm.” She picked up the frame that had been lying facedown on the table and turned it toward them.

Both men leaned in. Sam’s face went gray, his head pigeon-bobbing as he scanned the photo. He grabbed the frame, drawing it close. Bobby huffed in disbelief.

Sam gave a confused grunt and then flipped the photo over and read the inscription.    

“I don’t get it.” He waved a dismissive hand at the photo, and then went in for a third look. “Where was this taken?”

“On the farm that once stood where the strip-mall is now being built.” Ellen cleared her throat. “In 1935.”

Sam continued huffing and puffing as he studied the photo. “It can’t be. This guy’s wearing overalls for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s him, Sam.” She put her hand on his shoulder.

“But…” He didn’t finish; he just kept staring and squinting.

Bobby glanced at Ellen. “So that’s why the retrieval spell didn’t work. Dean wasn’t anywhere on the planet, at least not right _now_ , anyway.” Bobby turned to Florabel. “Are you the little girl in the photo?”

Florabel stiffened, overcome, trying to absorb it all. She nodded. “He come to be with Mama and me sometime in February of ’35. I found him half-dead in our barn. Came close to losin’ him to infection a couple of days after we found him. Weren’t no antibiotics then, and his gunshot wound had festered badly. Mama tended him for days without sleeping herself.”

“What happened to him?” Sam asked, tense and breathless.

“He pulled through. Mama seen to that. It was a close shave, but he got better. He stayed with Mama and me more’n two months—felt like a lifetime to me, though. Became like one of the family.”

“Months?” Sam eyes grew in amazement. “And then what happened? Where is he?”

“Happened?” Florabel stared at him, twisted with pain and sorrow. “What happened?” Tears filled her eyes. “ _Slaid happened_ , that’s what. Slaid happened to all of us. He ruined everything.”

* *

_April 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Emma awoke to the rattle of glass beads clicking together and strange slurping noises. She blinked in confusion, trying to recall why she’d slept so late. The bed jiggled and she turned her head, meeting Florabel’s face far too close to hers, lumpy cheeks puffed out with marbles and red, wet lips smacking and gurgling. Lifting her head, she met Florabel’s blue eyes. They grew large, and the little girl spit out the marbles, leaving thin strings of saliva connecting them to her tongue.

“Don’t put them things in your mouth, Florabel. How many times do I gotta say it? You’ll choke on ‘em one day. Either that or you’ll have marbles rattlin’ around in your tummy forever.”

The child paid no attention to the groggy lecture. “Mama!” She bent in even closer, Emma’s entire scope of vision filling with her daughter’s bottomless blue eyes. “I’m watchin’ over you like they done tol’ me to. I ain’t a-gonna let nothin’ bad happen to you, Mama. You just git some sleep. Doc says you need lots a’rest and for me not to pester you none. I ain’t. I’m only talkin’ cause you’s awake.”

“Doc?” Emma jerked, memories of Slaid’s attack on Dean returning to her full force. “Dean!” She threw off the covers and bounded from the bed. “We have to help him!”

Florabel tugged her arm. “Mama, the Doc’s been with Pally all day. You been sleeping for hours.” Following Emma, she continued to make her case. “Doc says you ain’t supposed to git up. He says you need rest and lots of food. Ain’t you been eatin’, Mama?”

“Been other things to think about. I must ‘a forgot,” she said, distracted as she made her way downstairs. Doc Dawson and Jeb rose as she entered Dean’s room.

“Git on back to bed, girl.” Doc moved to usher her to her room. 

“I’m fine.” She stepped way, fending him off. “I’m gonna fix some supper an’ eat somethin’ like you said. I just wanted to check on Dean.  How’s he doin’?”

Doc let the matter drop and bent toward Dean.  “Well, this here boy is strung up an’ sailin’ high on Laudanum, but y’got most of it out’a him.  We noticed the Ipecac an’ the mess. We figured out what happened. He ain’t feelin’ no pain, I guarantee y’that.  He’ll sleep it off.  Gonna have a wallopin’ headache when he comes to.  Don’t give him no more unless it’s a capful, an’ keep it out’a his reach while he’s delirious.  He drank enough to kill hisself a few times over. Make sure them tethers is tight enough he cain’t git out of ‘em to hurt hisself like that agin.” 

“That ain’t what happened. He didn’t drink it on purpose, an’ I didn’t give it to him,” Emma bent down, stroking Dean’s hair.  “Slaid done it.  He weren’t tryin’ to be kind, neither.  I think he meant to overdose him.  Slaid an’ Dean don’t git along.” She explained to Doc. “An’ Slaid’s been actin’ funny an’ sayin’ things that ain’t fittin’ to be said to other folks.”  She spun toward Jeb.  “He ain’t welcome here no more.  I told him to clear out his belongings from the bunkhouse.  You make sure he does. He ain’t never to come back.” 

Jeb raised his eyebrows but nodded.  “I’ll see to it.” 

“How is Dean otherwise? What about the Dust Pneumonia?” She heard the low rumble coming from Dean’s chest as she ran her fingers over his brow.

“Well, he’s got Dust Pneumonia for sure.”  The doctor stroked his beard.  “Though, I seen other cases what’s been just as bad where folks has pulled through an’ been fine.  He’s young an’ otherwise healthy.  Thin as a fence post an’ more’n a bit malnourished. But who ain’t these days?” He patted the woman as she watched Dean with pleading eyes.

“But Red an’ Hen—”

“It ain’t as bad as Henry’s case nor Red’s, neither, Emeline.  Babies always have it worst with Dust Pneumonia, an’ Red—well, he never did have healthy lungs, even when he was a boy.  He was always wheezin’ on dusty days or cold days.  His mama fetched me many a time for Red’s bad breathin’ spells.  This boy ain’t like that.  He’s bad off right now, but he’ll come around.  Just you wait an’ see. You leave the poultice on his shoulder for a good week—more if’n it starts festerin’. He’s lost some blood, so he’s gonna be tired for a while, but he ain’t lost so much he cain’t recover from that, too.”

“What about his eyesight?”

“You done everything right, Em.” He praised her. “His eyes react to light. They’s swollen an’ raw, but they ain’t no reason to think he won’t have his sight after a rest. I just treated young Ned Bekker, and he cain’t see at all. Spent a good hour in the storm trying to find his way from the barn to the house. Was facin’ the wind a good part of the way an’ kept rubbin’ his eyes to try an’ see where he was goin’. He rubbed the dust right into ‘em so bad he tore ‘em up. He ain’t gonna see no more. Only eighteen years old, too. It’s sad.

“But this boy here is lucky—lucky he didn’t poke at ‘em an’ lucky he had you watchin’ after him. You flushed ‘em good. Give it another day or so an’ then you’s probably safe to take the restraints off. Keep his fever down. It’ll spike now ‘n agin. That’s just the way of Dust Pneumonia. If’n he don’t bounce back in a week, you send Jeb to fetch me. I’ll do what I can. I left some medicine that should help better’n the skunk oil. Keep using both, though. Give him a capful of Laudanum if’n he gits to be in pain.” He put his hands on Emma’s shoulders. “And you git rest an’ some food inside a’you. Y’ain’t gonna be any help to no one if’n you’s dead.” He grabbed his hat off the chair. “He’s gonna sleep on through ‘til tomorrow. Make sure y’all git rest tonight.” He thumped Jeb’s arm. “C’mon old man, drive me home an’ we can have a smoke and a game of checkers before y’gotta scoot.”

“I’ll be right there,” Jeb said as Doc headed to the truck.

Jeb walked to Emma and handed her the wad of cash. “Doc wouldn’t take a cent, Em. Not even for the medicines he left.” Jeb kissed her cheek. “They’s some beans in the pot, darlin’. Just need heatin’. Eat an’ then please go git more rest. You scared an old man near to death today.” He hugged the young woman and kissed her hair. “I’ll be right quick. An’ I’ll make sure Dean ain’t alone while you rest. You got Old Jeb, darlin’.” He placed a knotted and gnarled hand on her cheek. “I know I ain’t your papa, but I couldn’t love no more if’n you was my own daughter. I’d be a broke man if anything happened to you.”

* *

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

“How the hell did this happen, Bobby?” Sam’s anger bubbled as he tried to process the situation.

“You think I know, boy?” Bobby raised his hands, reacting to Sam’s aggression. He huffed and then wilted. “Maybe—hell, I dunno. We know the ghost summoned the elemental. He probably summoned it in 1935, too.”

“Right.” Ellen picked up the thread of his thought and ran with it. “There weren’t any portals open anywhere else when Dean fell through, so instead of being teleported to another Elemental’s portal, he went the only way he could—back in time—when the portal had been first created, perhaps.”

“But the lore didn’t say anything about that, Ellen.” Sam paced around the kitchen, unable to remain still in his anxiety.

“No, but that doesn’t mean a lot, Sam. When have two vengeful spirits fought for control of one of these things before? Might be something like this hasn’t happened before now. It’s rare anyone summons these things, because they’re so dangerous and unpredictable. It shows what a moron this guy was for even attempting it. These things are raw, primitive energy—destructive energy at that. There haven’t been any books written on this shit, you know that just as well as the rest of us. Sounds like we’re about to add a chapter or two to the lore ourselves. Now, whether you like it or not, that picture isn’t Photoshopped. Dean fell through time, no matter how crazy it seems.” Ellen glanced at Florabel. “Did Dean talk to you about any of this? Did he tell you where he was from?”

“Not then, no. Not really.” Florabel rose, her face a gristmill of emotion. “We had one conversation that hinted at it, but he never came out and said it.” Her eyes searched Sam’s. “He didn’t know who he was for the longest time. We learned his name from a card in his billfold that said it was Dean Hetfield. He didn’t remember what it was. But even though he couldn’t remember anything outright, he was always troubled by images in his head. He was plagued by spells, when memories from his past played out in his head even though he couldn’t remember when or where they happened. He knew your name, Sam. Spoke it in his sleep often. Even though he couldn’t remember you, he still saw you in his mind and he was always desperate to recall more.” She smiled at him. “He fussed something fierce tryin’ to remember you. You was that one broken coil in a mattress keepin’ him awake at night. You was the most important thing to him even when he didn’t know you.” Sam ran his hands through his hair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wasn’t until the storm that he come to remember everything.”

“Storm?” Sam asked.

“Black Sunday.” Memories chased themselves across her face. “The biggest dust storm that hit during the Dust Bowl. It was the storm that gave the Dust Bowl its name, in fact. That storm happened on April 14, 1935, the same day this photo was took. We got caught in it, and he saved me. He nearly died keeping me alive. That’s the day he remembered who he was.”

“And who’s this Slaid you mentioned?” Bobby asked.

“He was a monster.” She flinched, closing her eyes. “He’s the one who summoned that…thing. I don’t know how he done it. I don’t know if he done it more than once. They was a lot of whisperin’ during the big dust storm, so I’m sure he had a hand in that, too. But I saw him bring the black cyclone once, ‘bout a week after the storm. I tried to forget the whole thing. I don’t want to think about it now.” Her jaw trembled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ellen moved in and put her arm around the older woman’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but this is a matter of life or death. I can see plain as day how much you cared about Dean.” Florabel’s chest hitched at that and she started to weep. “But we need to know what happened. As hard as it is to understand, it isn’t really over. We might be able to help him if you tell us what happened.”

Florabel fought her emotions for a moment before speaking. “I always thought it was my fault.” She searched each face in turn. “That I done something to make Slaid the way he was. I thought that for years. And I felt especially bad for how I acted that day when everything happened. I was selfish and childish, and I cain’t fix that. I cain’t take back what I said to Mama.”

Ellen sat the old woman in the chair. “You have to tell us, Florabel. Please.”

The old woman took several breaths and studied her hands as they trembled in her lap. “It began on April 19, 1935. I thought the dust storm had been bad, but it weren’t nothing compared to this. This was the worst day of my life.”

* *

_April 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

After shivering for days, Dean kicked off the sheets, too warm, too stifling, too annoying. He rubbed his aching head and opened his eyes, testing them, taking care to focus. When he’d first opened his eyes everything braided and bled together like melted wax, but each day brought improvement and today was his best yet.

He watched three or four houseflies flitting around, darting above him in perfect squares and triangles as they flew aimlessly over the bed. The light twisted and stretched them, but he could see them well enough. When he moved his head, a trail of disorienting, pixie-dust-like lights stretch away from everything, so he closed his eyes, giving them a rest. He coughed again and growled in pain and frustration.

No matter how much brown mucus he coughed up, there was always more. It never ended; he never had a break—except when Emma allowed him some Laudanum, which she was stingy with, saying that coughing was the best thing for him. Best thing or not, coughing that much and that often fucking hurt like hell.

As he lay there, calming his lungs one breath at a time, he sorted through his memories of the last couple of days, separating the nightmare images from reality and finding there’d been moments when the two overlapped.

Slaid’s visit had been real, he knew that, and he gagged, remembering the pervert’s foul breath and filthy, roaming hands. Snaking a hand to his shorts, Dean touched his groin and hissed in pain. Lifting the boxers, he saw the blurred outline of the monster’s paw-print on his thigh, the nail-bites still red and angry. What happened after or why Slaid had left him alive remained a mystery. He thought he remembered Emma in the room at one point, but everything beyond Slaid’s groping hands remained vague.

“Jesus, Sammy. Could things be any more FUBAR?”

He put his hand to his chest and sat up, breathing with controlled, steady breaths, knowing any quick intake could set him off coughing. He drew his knees up and rested his elbows on them as he cradled his head in his hands. He felt old and tired, hungry and weak.

Despite all of that, though, he needed to get up and move no matter how much his body protested. Slaid was out there somewhere. They weren’t safe. And as revolting as the thought was, Dean still needed him in order to get home. _If_ he could get home at all.

The stitches on his shoulder pulled as he pivoted and set his feet on the floor. “What the hell?” He craned his neck, noticing the bandage and poultice. He had no memory of getting wounded there.

“Great.” He rose with a sigh, bracing himself against the wall with a splayed hand. “Fuckin’ wonderful.”

He gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder…his chest…his entire body. Stopping to cough, he paused, willing away a full-blown coughing fit. He noticed his clothes laying on top of the chest of drawers, washed and folded, his wallet and lucky marble next to them. Emma’d mended the shirt and replaced the buttons with mismatching ones. He got dressed, pocketing the marble and wallet, latching only the right side of his overalls in order to spare his left shoulder—again.

“This is becoming a habit,” he said to the shoulder. “Can’t leave you alone for a moment, can I?” Clearing his throat, he shuffled out of the room and into the kitchen.

Emma stood, scrubbing the window over the butcher block. Hearing him shuffle toward the table, she stopped.

“Dean!” She walked toward him. “You shouldn’t be up.”

He held up his hand and pulled out a chair, glancing around. “Where is everyone?”

“Florabel’s nappin’ upstairs. I sent Jeb to the bunkhouse for a rest, too. He’s been sittin’ with you at night, and then he returned the Haffner’s truck this morning, walked all the way back. He needed some sleep.” Her eyes settled on him. “You should git on to bed yourself. You ain’t fit to be up, yet.”

“I’m fine.” He waved her off. “I can’t stay in that room all the time.” He gave her a tired grin. “Is there any coffee?” At this point he’d gnaw grinds if that’s all there was.

Emma nodded and poured him a mug. She patted his good shoulder and returned to her work.

“Thanks.” Dean took a sip and wondered how long it had been since he’d had a beer…or whiskey. He cleared his throat and picked up a frame that sat on the table.

“What’s this?” he asked, trying to bring it into focus.

Emma’s face relaxed into a smile, as warm and intimate as a caress. Guilt smothered his inclination to reciprocate, however, and he quickly cast his eyes to the photo, squinting at it.

“It’s the picture Jeb took. He brung it from town, and Florabel put it in the frame. She wrote on the back, herself. She was mighty proud of that.” Emma came close, looked at the picture and snorted. “I look like a silly goose.” She gave the photo a huff and a wave of dismissal.

“You look beautiful,” Dean said, but then he put the picture down as though it had grown teeth. His stomach knotted with shame and remorse as he watched Emma’s lovely cheeks flush with hope.

“Says the man who’s more ‘n half blind right now.” She walked to the window with a chuckle. “You really need to go git some more rest.” She reminded him.

“I’m not tired.” He eyed the photo one last time before turning it over and placing it facedown on the table.

“I understand, Dean, and I cain’t tell you how happy I am that your fever’s down. You been terrible ill since the storm. You don’t want to git worse by bein’ over ambitious.” Her face broke into a shy smile as she turned toward him. “Besides, you have to git well so’s you can court me proper.” Her eyes sparkled, and then dulled when Dean offered her nothing more in returned than a tortured glance.

Clearing her throat, she went back to the window, wiping it mechanically, using the motion as a shield against her obvious humility and embarrassment. A long, awkward silence filled the room.

“Emma…” Dean paused, trying to find the words.

She tossed him a slight shrug as she began wiping the window harder. “You should really go on to bed, Dean.” She tried to deflect. “A good sleep will do wonders. Your eyes still need rest, too.”  

“Emma, I need to tell you some things.” He rose, leaning on the table.

A small mark on the window held her attention and she scritched and scratched at it industriously, desperate to clean that one spot. “Ain’t nothing so important it cain’t wait while you mend.” She swallowed as she rubbed and scrubbed.

“Something happened during the storm,” he said. Emma closed her eyes, giving up on the stain on the window. “I remembered.” His voice sank to a whisper.

Emma’s eyes popped open, looking past the stain, toward the barnyard and the dwindling drift that had blocked the backdoor for days. The wind continued to eat away at it, flecks of dust flying past as she stared out the window. “Remembered?” Monotone words came from her stone mask. “What did you remember?”

“How I got here. Sam. Everything.” He stood straight and still. “I remember who I am.”

Emma remained transfixed by the desolate view of the barnyard, eyes darting from the chicken-coop that sheltered no life to the barn that housed no cow. “My goodness.” She spoke without emotion. “That’s wonderful, Dean. So, I expect you’s gonna be gittin’ on with everything, then? Find Sam and git your revenge?”

“You were right, Em.” Dean shook his head. “I wasn’t seeing the whole picture. Sam didn’t do this.” He pointed to his shoulder. “Not the way I thought. And I have to find him. He’s in trouble and he needs me.”

Emma dropped her cleaning rag on the butcher block and braced her hands on the warped wood. “I see.”

“Emma.” Dean walked to her, reaching out even as she shriveled away from his touch. He almost withdrew his hand, but he set it on her shoulder anyway. “Emma, there is no way to ever explain things to you that would make sense.”

“Don’t have to, Dean.” She sniffed and picked up the rag, folding it in her hands over and over and over again. Staring at it. “Y’don’t owe me nothin’.”

“I owe you everything. I owe you my life. Two or three times, probably more. Emma…” He tried to turn her toward him, but she fought the pull. He continued until she relented and faced him, eyes smoky with loss. “Emma, I want you to know something. There is only one thing that would ever force me to leave you and Florabel.”

“An’ this is it, ain’t it?” She finished. “This is the one thing?” The momentum of her voice remained steady, keeping the thin, steel rod of her emotions from snapping.

Dean’s jaw clenched as he strove to find any words that would take away her pain—their pain. “Yes, and I’m so sorry.”

She nodded and refolded the towel in her hands. Shrugging, she caught a runaway tear with the back of her hand. “Florabel’s gonna be fit to be tied. She has such a crush on you.” She smiled and moved away, clearing her throat.

“Emma…” Dean drew her back. “I’m not leaving today. There’s a lot you don’t understand, and I have to work some things out before I can even go find Sam. But I have to focus on doing that. No matter what happens, though, I won’t leave until I know you and Florabel are safe.”

“Safe?” she said, bewildered. “Safe from what?”

Dean hesitated. “From Slaid,” he said at last. “Slaid’s the one who brought me here. He’s done other things, Emma. Terrible things. Things I just…things I don’t even know how to begin to tell you. I have to find him. I can’t get home without him.”

“What things? What’s he done, Dean?” She searched his face. “Tell me.” Dean couldn’t speak. “You said some things when you was delirious. Did you know that? You talked about Slaid a lot. You said you’d kill him if he touched Florabel agin. What did that mean, Dean?” She shook him. “What did that mean?”

He struggled for words and moved to the table, leaning against it, whispering. “He hurt her, Em.”  

“How? What did he do to her? Don’t you turn away from me! Tell me this instant, Dean!”  

“Mama? What’s happening? Why’s you yellin’ at Pally?” The fear in Florabel’s small voice made them both spin toward her. She stood in the archway between the kitchen and parlor, eyes huge as she watched her mother’s tear-streaked face. “What’s wrong, Mama? Why’s you cryin’?”

Emma twitched and rubbed her eyes, attempting to hide the obvious. “Florabel, baby girl, you startled me.” She feigned a casual tone. “Dean and me was just talkin’.”

“You was yellin’, Mama.” She crept closer to the two adults, looking from one face to the other, confused and frightened by the tension in the room. “Pally, why is Mama mad?”

Dean felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“I’m not mad.” Emma spoke before Dean could, her demeanor relaxed as she put on an air of enthusiasm. “I’m just so happy for him. Dean told me his memory got so jogged during the storm, he remembered everything he’d forgotten. Ain’t that wonderful?”

The little girl’s eyes flitted to him. “Then why ain’t he smilin’, Mama?”

“Well,” Emma watched Dean, “he needs to go on home, and we’s gonna have to say our goodbyes. He’s got a whole life waitin’ for him, things he’s gotta do. So he’ll be leavin’ when he gits to feelin’ fit enough.”

Florabel cocked her head at the adults like they were speaking a foreign language. “Leavin’? When’s he comin’ back?” She turned to Dean. “When’s you comin’ back, Pally?”

Dean went to say something, but Emma cut him off again.

“He needs to go live his life, honey. He needs to go fetch his brother and go home. It’s just a miracle he remembered everything. We need to be proper thankful for that.”

“Mama?” Florabel’s face stormed with confusion and hurt. “Ain’t no way he can leave us. We’s his family. We’s your family, Pally. You cain’t leave.”   Florabel’s chest heaved and her eyes pooled.

“Florabel,” Emma folded her arms, “don’t be pesterin’ him. No carryin’ on, remember what I said when he first come here? I’ll have none of that.”

The little girl cast an accusing eye on her mother. “You said we wouldn’t mourn for someone we didn’t know. We know him, Mama!” She pointed her finger at Emma. “Mama, you’s his family! How can you smile?”

Emma gaped at her daughter’s display of temper. She returned with a swift, stern response. “Don’t you take that tone, Florabel Livingston.”

The child stamped her foot, unrepentant—furious. “Fix it, Mama! Don’t let him go!”

Emma plastered an easygoing, affected smile on her face. “No need to fix what ain’t broke. He needs to go on his way, baby girl. It’s wonderful that he’ll be reunited with his brother.”

“Why is you actin’ like it don’t matter, Mama?” Florabel shouted, her eyes frigid. Emma began to say something, but Florabel cut her off. “How can you say it’s good when it ain’t what you think? Tell him, Mama! Tell him you love him! Please! Tell him you love him an’ he won’t leave!”

Emma’s eyes blazed. “You put them silly romantic notions right out’a your head. I’m your papa’s wife, an’ don’t you be forgettin’ that. Now you just stop this display right this very moment. I’m shocked, Florabel. For shame.”

Florabel flushed scarlet with rage. “You don’t care! You don’t care what I want! How could you, Mama? I hate you! I hate you both!”

Dean and Emma stood, stunned by the hard edge of Florabel’s fury as it sliced through them. By the time either recovered, the little girl had run out the front door, slamming the screen behind her as hard as she could.

“I’ll get her,” Dean said, breaking the shocked silence that descended.

“You cain’t. You ain’t fit to be out.” Emma tried to stop him, but Dean was already on the move.

“This is my doing. I’ll go get her.” He closed the screen door without another word.

**

Emma stood at the door for a moment then made her way to the kitchen, collapsing in the chair Dean had vacated. Head in her hands, she wept without restraint or inhibition, heedless of anything but her overwhelming sorrow and loss.

And so it came to pass, overcome and overborne, Emma never heard the front door open, never heard the footsteps approach, never knew she wasn’t alone until a thin, skeletal hand gripped her from behind and lizard-dry fingers clamped over her mouth.

Her panic-stricken eyes searched Slaid’s carnivorous beads as she fell back into his strangling embrace. He snaked the other hand around her neck and kept the other on her mouth, preventing her from screaming. The stench of rotting flesh and sweat emanated from him, overwhelming Emma’s nostrils as she fought for breath. Eyes gaunt and feral, they gleamed with an inhuman hunger so profound that she prayed to God for the first time since Henry died in her arms. Fear and disgust coiled and twined together, choking her every bit as much as the fingers around her throat.

Slaid breathed in her scent, rubbing his nose on her neck and ear. “Slaid’s so patient.” He boasted. “Watching and waiting for days so that we could be alone. Looks like the _Ördög_ Fighter will pull through even after all my hard work. Doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of him next.” He chuckled and tightened his grasp.

Emma fought him, prying at his reptilian fingers, digging into them with her nails, but he only squeezed harder in retaliation.

“Shouldn’t have pointed your gun at me, bitch. We could have shared so much together. You would have screamed so beautifully for me, just like your little whore did.” He grinned at her and spit in her face with a hiss. “But you chose the Devil Fighter, and I can see there is no changing that now.”  

He constricted her throat with his forearm. When she fought against him, he yanked her back and forth, disorienting her, dragging her to the ground and straddling her.

“Please, no,” she whispered hoarsely. Begging him.

“The little one, now,” he stopped to explain, “she’s young, ya? Slaid can tame her, make her his.”   He looked into Emma’s terrified eyes and grinned. “She is already, don’t you know? She has Slaid’s seed in her. Slaid pumped it in himself.” His words knifed through the air and plunged deep. He loosed a hysterical laugh as he watched the horror on her face, and he rutted his groin against her, cackling—mocking her devastation. “She was such a tight, juicy little bitch.”

Emma’s eyes widened and fear gave way to a fierce, deadly anger. She fought him with every ounce of her being, biting, screaming, pinching, kicking. Her ferocity took the farmhand by surprise, causing him to lose his grip on her, but a lucky grab through her hair brought her head down violently. Slaid slammed her skull into the floor several times until she was too dazed to fight. He kissed her lips, his tongue flicking in and out as her eyes fluttered in her desperate struggle to remain conscious.

“Shhh, softly…softly now,” he whispered, stroking her cheek.

Ripples of blue light arced from his fingers onto her, spreading over her face and down the full length of her body. Muffling her shrieks with a clammy hand, he released a small, rattling laugh. He unclasped his overalls and hitched up her dress, his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on her neck. He pressed his scaly lips against her ear, and with a savage thrust of his hips he forced his way in.

“Florabel loves you so...”

* *

Dean followed the blurry dust-plumes Florabel left in her wake as she ran through the sloping dunes. Clutching his chest, he strove to overtake her. “Florabel! He called to her, wheezing. “Stop!”

She turned, not far from the tree that had sheltered them during the storm, watching him through furious, fey eyes as he approached. Dean went to grab her by the hand as she took flight again. He missed and tried once more, catching her by the straps of her overalls. He pulled her to him, but she fought hard, throwing wild punches at his legs and stomach.

“Florabel, no!” Dean yelled, but she was out of control. The stitches in his shoulder tore as he picked her up. She continued to beat on him, snorting and seething the whole time, grunting as she kicked her little legs to try and free herself. “Stop it, Florabel!”

“You—you…” She slammed her fists against his chest. “You don’t care!”

Dean adjusted her in his arms, trying to get a better grip as she flailed with wild abandon.

“How…?” She punched his wounded shoulder. “How…!” She pummeled his collarbone.

Dean shook her again and grabbed both her fists, holding them against his heart. She bucked crazily.

“How…?”  She cried, exhausting herself. Her head fell against his neck, breath erratic, sobs hitching and wrenching from her as her body went limp. “How can you leave me when I love you so?” A tortured, wailing sob came from her, and she lost herself in her grief.

The realization of what he’d be leaving behind crushed Dean to the ground. His legs buckled and he covered Florabel’s head as they slithered into the dust, a sharp pain shooting through his shoulder as they jolted to a stop. He cradled her in his arms as she mourned, her suffering too raw to witness.

She had no inner censor, no learned stoicism, nothing to hold her grief in check or to dilute it—no feigned understanding or polite niceties. Florabel bleated, her heart wholly broken, and Dean’s heart broke along with it. He held her close and kissed her warm straw-colored braids as she clung to him. Dean rested his chin on her head and mourned as well—mourned her pain and a life that forced these choices on him. His lack of choice, rather. There was no choice for him and never had been. He mourned that all he ever did was bring pain to others, and now, of all people, Florabel was going to be the next victim of his pathetic life.

Her voice hitched and hiccupped with sobs. “Pal—ly, wh—y? Why would y—ou leave me and Ma—ma?”

He hugged her tight. “Florabel, I know it’s hard to understand, but Sam needs me. I have to try and find him.”

“I ne—ed you. Sam ain’t even loo—lookin’ for you.”

“That’s not true.” He rubbed her back, soothing her throes. “He’s looking for me.”

“How do you know?” She coughed back another sob.

“Because I know my brother. I remember everything now. Sam’s searching for me, and he’s worried sick.”

“Cain’t you just find him and bring him ba—back to the farm? He can live here, too.”

Dean sighed. “You have no idea how I wish I could, but it’s just not possible.” The little girl started sobbing again. “Florabel, I’d stay if there was a way. You have to believe me. But Sam’s in danger, and I have to try and protect him.”

Florabel looked at him, her eyes a florescent blue from her tears. “But what about…” Her brows pinched and she reached a hand down to protect herself. “What about Slaid? If’n you leave me, I’ll be all alone with him.” She began to hyperventilate from the thought, instinctively crossing her legs and crushing them together. Dean grabbed her and held her up to his face.

“I’m not leaving you with Slaid. I won’t go anywhere until you’re safe.” He promised her. “But once you and your mama are free of him I have to go find my brother and help him.”

“But we need you, too.”

“He needs me more. That’s why I have to go, sweetheart. Sam’s in a lot of trouble right now. He’s strong, but you’re stronger. You’re so strong, and you don’t need me the way he does.”

“I don’t feel strong.” She rubbed her leaking nose on her shirt. Dean turtled his hand into his sleeve, creating a handkerchief out of the cuff and let her blow.

“You are, though.” He dabbed at her nose. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. And you’re gonna help your mama, and you’re gonna be okay. You’ll get through this and then you’re gonna go back to school. You’re gonna study hard and become a doctor if that’s what you want.”

Florabel let out a dubious huff. “I’m a girl.”

“That only means you’re gonna be fifty years ahead of all them other girls if you go on and do what you want with your life, now,” he said. “You’re gonna be a doctor one day. You’ll help so many people, Florabel. You’ll settle down and get married and have a family. You’re gonna have what I c…” His voice cracked and he swallowed. “You’re gonna have what I can’t…no matter how much I want it.”

They sat in silence, broken only by Florabel’s sniffles. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to leave. I have to, though. If I can even find a way.”

“That don’t make no sense, Pally.” Florabel fell against his chest.

“I know. But my home is very far away. We’re talkin’ a completely different time zone.” He shifted her to ease his shoulder and then resettled. “It’s gonna be difficult to find my way home. I’m gonna have to work really hard to get there.”

“Will you be able to come an’ visit me sometimes?” Her eyes flooded with plump tears.

“I live too far away,” he said. “It won’t be possible.”

“Pally…” The tears flowed again. “Please, please don’t leave Mama an’ me.”

“Hey ‘Bel, come on, now.” He continued to soothe and rub her back. “How about this? Tonight is a full moon, right?” The little girl nodded. “Okay, so anytime you ever see a full moon, that’ll be me saying hello. That way we can always keep in touch, huh?”

Florabel snuffled and her chest hitched. “And whenever you see a full moon, Pally, that’ll be me sayin’ I love you.”

Dean took several breaths and kissed her hair. “Me too, ‘Bel.”  

They sat in silence for a few moments, steadying their breathing, each calming the other. Dean ran his hand up and down her back as her sobs eased. The pain in his shoulder grew hot, and looking behind him, he saw blood soaking through the fabric. “Come on.” He broke their embrace. “We need to get home to your mama. She needs you, and you need to apologize for how you spoke to her.”

“I don’t really hate her.”

“Let’s go tell her, then.” Dean stood and took a couple of stiff steps. “I’m not going anywhere today, Florabel, so just be calm and let’s not spoil the time we have left.”

Florabel took his hand. “I’m sorry I beat on you, Pally. I didn’t mean to be bad.”

“You’re not bad, sweetheart.” He gripped her hand. “You were just upset.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way home. Dean stopped a couple of times to catch his breath. He felt faint from all the exertion and emotion, and he wouldn’t protest Emma’s certain demand that he go back to bed. He was more than ready and willing. They climbed the steps to the veranda and opened the squeaky screen door. Dean made sure it didn’t bang. No sense in upsetting Emma more than she already was.

“Mama…” Florabel slipped in the door. “We’s home, I’m sor…” She froze in mid-sentence. Dean stood blinking as he adjusted to the darkness of the room, the sunlight having made his eyesight worse than it was before. He felt Florabel’s scream more than he heard it. It thrilled right through him until it buzzed against his spine.

“ _Mama!_ ” She ran to where Emma lay motionless under the archway separating the kitchen from the parlor, wailing as she went, throwing herself upon her mother. “Mama! Mama! Wake up! Mama!” The child patted her mother’s face, trying to rouse her.

Dean ran to them. He swung Florabel off the woman and deposited her a few feet away. Turning to Emma, he pulled her dress down with one hand, giving the woman back her dignity while placing two fingers at the pulse-point of her brutalized neck with the other. He received a powerful static shock from the touch, but he felt no pulse.

“Emma!” he called. “Jesus! Emma.”

He searched for other injuries, but beyond her neck and the vicious spread of her legs, he perceived only some residual electric charges pulsing in different areas of her body. They dissipated soon after he noticed them. Tears lay drying on her cheek, eyes half-open but vacant. Straightening her, he tilted her head, pinched her nose and gave her two quick breaths.

“Breathe, Emma.” Florabel’s continuous screams receded into background as his awareness tunneled on the lifeless woman in front of him. “Emma!” He folded his palms one over the other and began chest compressions, counting them off and giving her two more breaths. No pulse, no stir of life, no sound other than the sound of his heart pounding in his ears—more chest compressions. And again. And again. He kept going, watching his tears fall onto her still, lifeless face as he worked.

“No!” Adrenaline fueled anger overtook him over. “No you don’t! God damn you Emma!”

**

“No you don’t! God damn you Emma!”

Those were the words Jeb heard as he ran up the porch stairs. Slaid had roused him from a sound sleep, telling him Dean had done something unspeakable. Jeb tried to tell him Emma didn’t want him there and to go on about his business, but Slaid had dragged him out the door. When he reached the porch steps, he heard Dean yelling and swearing at Emma. He barreled through the door.

Florabel stood to the side, screaming and garbling hysterically, calling her mother’s name and begging ‘Pally’ to stop hurting her mama. Dean was on the floor, straddling the woman, and Jeb watched in horror as he pounded into her, pushed on her—throttled her.

“Dean!” Jeb yelled, but the young man didn’t answer, too intent on beating his fists against Emma’s senseless body. “Stop it! What is you doin’?” Jeb ran, grabbing at him. Dean looked up, surprised, uncomprehending. “You’s killin’ her!”

“Jeb!” Dean pulled free. “No! No! You don’t understand. I have to.” He pushed the old man away and went back to pounding his hands against Emma. Jeb heard the sharp snap of her ribs breaking.

“Jesus Christ, Dean!” He bellowed. “Stop! No!”

There was a sudden motion to his right as Slaid swung the cast iron kettle he’d retrieved from the stove, slamming it into the side of Dean’s head with a sickening crack. The younger man crumpled lifelessly to the floor, blood spilling from the open head wound. Florabel continued her incoherent screaming.

“Florabel, child…” Jeb reached out to her, but she was in world of her own.

“Mama! Mama! Pally!” She stood there screaming, her rigid body quivering with shock.

Slaid picked her up. “Don’t cry little one.”

The moment Slaid’s hand touched her, she became animalistic, struggling against him. He dropped her when she sunk her teeth into his arm. The little girl bolted from the house, screaming as she ran.

“Oh God, Emma.” Jeb kneeled, his broken heart thudding. She was gone. “My God, what’s he done to you?” He laid his hand on her forehead feeling the warmth still there. “Oh, my darling, child.” He wept into her broken chest and lifted her into his arms, glaring at Dean where he lay in an expanding puddle of blood.

“Monster!” Jeb shook his head in disbelief. “What have you done?”


	17. Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust

__

_April 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Jeb’s cheek rested on Emma’s head as he cradled her. He shushed and cooed to her until her body began to cool in his arms. Another wave of grief rolled over him, and he clutched her tight, tears falling and dissolving into her hair. He knew he had to let her go, but laying her out would be so final; laying her out would mean she was gone. Here, in his arms, she was still _present_ , still needing the solace and comfort the old man could provide.  
  
Always one to bury her fears and sorrows, Emma’d brushed off helping hands and shoulders to lean on, her grace and strength faltering just the once—when Henry died. All other times, she’d worked through her grief in doing for others, and he’d been just one of the many recipients of her compassion. Now, he’d never have the chance to repay her for all she’d done for him when no one else would.  
  
Slaid interrupted his thoughts with an impatient grunt.  
  
“We need to finish off the Devil Fighter,” he said. “The little wh…the little one has run off. We must find her, ya?” He grabbed the large pot he’d used on Dean, revving up to swing again. Jeb grasped the handle of the pot before Slaid could strike.  
  
“Y’ain’t gonna lam him. We’ll leave him to the law for what he done.” Jeb yanked the pot from Slaid’s hands. “What the hell is you thinkin’?”  
  
“The law? We’ll be his law. _Ördög_ Fighter does not belong here. He has no family. No home, no friends. We do not need the law to teach him lessons, ya? Slaid will gladly teach.”  
  
“Y’ain’t touchin’ him.” Jeb pushed him away and rose to his knees, readjusting his grip on Emma, collecting her slight body into his arms. “Let’s put this angel in the bedroom for now.” His voice trembled as he stifled a sob. “Go open the door for me.”  
  
He laid Emma on Dean’s bed, folding her arms over her chest. He kissed each lid after closing her eyes and smoothed her brow. When he went to straighten her dress, he noticed her underwear bunched around her knees. His brows pleated in complete confusion for a brief second before seeing bloody smears on her thighs. Reality crashed into him, and he slumped onto the bed, his face a tapestry of disgust, grief and shock.  
  
“No!” He fisted his palms together, raising them to his forehead in tortured prayer. “Oh no, no, please…” He collapsed against the young woman, smothering himself in her strangle-marks. His shoulders bobbed and shuddered with each sob, soundless except a soft, wheezing hiss that escaped his throat.  
  
“Monster!” He bellowed. Rising, he caressed her cheek. “How could he?” He pulled away from her, looking around, bewildered and helpless, unable to make sense of what had happened. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I’m so sorry Old Jeb wasn’t there to protect you. God forgive me. I’d—”  
  
Wiping his eyes, he noticed his gun lying on the nightstand where Emma had set it days ago, after her confrontation with Slaid. He contemplated a moment, his body rigored with bitter anger. Then, with a growl, he grabbed it and ran to the kitchen where Dean lay on the floor.  
  
He’d not moved a muscle since he’d been hit, and the head wound continued to ooze blood. Jeb used his foot to roll him over, exposing his face, half of it painted a sticky, crimson from lying in the puddle. The low rumble coming from his chest told Jeb that he was alive. But how he’d perpetrated such an obscene, salacious act with Dust Pneumonia, Jeb had no clue. The old man leaned in and aimed the gun pointblank at Dean’s head.  
  
“Why Dean?” He wept again. “She never done you nothin’ but good turns—tended you, helped you, fed you. She never asked for nothin’. She never done nothin’ but kindness after kindness.”  
  
“Pull the trigger!” Slaid leaned in, encouraging him, but Jeb’s focus remained on Dean.  
  
“It don’t make no sense! She loved you! Any fool could see that.” He re-gripped the gun, wincing as he summoned the courage to shoot. “I thought maybe you loved her, too.”  
  
“Do it, old man! Kill the Devil Fighter!”  
  
“An’ little Florabel loved you—idolized you. Why’d you do it? You went and made that little thing an orphan, took her mama from her, the only thing she had left in this world!” He released a guttural, wordless malediction.  
  
“Shoot him!” Slaid continued to goad him. “We don’t need the law. If you won’t do it, give Slaid the gun. Slaid is brave—unafraid!” He snuffed in deep and spat into Dean’s face.  
  
Jeb waffled a moment longer. With a grunt, he slouched, releasing a staggered sigh. Pointing the gun toward the ground, his chest hitched in defeat.  
  
“Damn you.”  
  
“No old man, give me the gun. Slaid’ll do it! Give justice, ya?”  
  
Jeb shook his head, eyes on Dean. “I cain’t kill a man. We’ll lock him in the root cellar ‘til we find Florabel and fetch Sheriff Burnett out here.”  
  
Collaring Dean, he dragged him toward the door. Outside, each man grabbed a leg and tugged him down the stairs. As soon as his head hit the first step though, Jeb stopped, growling in frustration. Part of him wanted to let the man get what was coming to him, but it couldn’t be at his hands. He had Slaid readjust and take Dean’s arms, lifting his wounded head off the ground before continuing. They half carried, half hauled him along the dusty path to the barn. Once inside, they pulled him through the syrupy fluids oozing from Penny’s bloated carcass where it still lay in her stall, covered in hundreds of buzzing flies and maggots.  
  
Jeb nodded toward the trapdoor under the hay. “Open the door.” Jeb hoisted Dean over his shoulder for the descent into the cellar. He recoiled and grimaced as he approached the hole. “Christ! What’s that smell?”  
  
Slaid shrugged and led the way, lighting the lamp once he got to the bottom. After descending the ladder, Jeb let Dean slide off his shoulder. The unconscious man landed hard, folding at improbable angles like a broken accordion.  
  
Jeb looked around and gagged. “Christ Almighty.”  
  
Slaid held the lantern, edgy and nervous. “It wasn’t me! I haven’t been down here in months!”  
  
“Dear God.” Jeb eyed Dean. “I saw him come out’a here just afore the storm.” He gaped at the murals. “Ungodly. Unholy! I cain’t…” He doubled over and retched into the pile of Molly’s downy feathers. Jeb recognized them and growled. He pivoted toward Dean. “You obscene demon! All this time, it was you?” He wiped sweat off his brow and took a beat, expecting to heave again. “My God, how could he have fooled all of us?” Jeb looked at Dean, heartbroken, realizing Emma was not the only friend he lost. “I trusted you, boy. I believed you was a good man. How could I a’been so wrong?”  
  
Slaid grinned as the old man strove to catch his breath. “I never trusted him, but no one would believe me!” The farmhand kicked dirt and gore into Dean’s face. Slaid laughed and continued to kick more fouled earth onto him. “Ha! This is fun!”  
  
Jeb shook himself free, noticing the farmhand’s idea of ‘fun’. He pulled him away.  
  
“None of that. The Sheriff will take him.” He coughed and gagged again. “Leave him. We need to find Florabel. The child’s off her nut with grief and fear.”  
  
He doused the lantern and followed Slaid from the cellar, threading a sturdy piece of wood left over from rebuilding the barn through the handles of the trapdoor.  
  
“He ain’t likely to wake anytime soon. But if’n he does, he won’t be able to git out’a this. Let’s go find the young’un.” Jeb trotted from the barn, calling Florabel’s name.

**

Once Jeb was gone, Slaid tossed his head back and spun around, arms outstretched in awe and wonder.  
  
“Hala!” He hugged himself. “Slaid is worthy, now, ya?” Shuddering with delight, he stood listening while Jeb called for Florabel around the barnyard. Slaid opened his eyes and fell to his knees, diving into the straw, rolling and frolicking like a child.  
  
“Devil Fighter.” He laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. “You could not have made it easier.” Wiping his eyes, he collected himself. He rose and prowled through the barn, climbing the ladder to the loft until his head was level with the floor. He craned his neck, searching.  
  
“Are you in here, little one?” He glanced around, a greasy smile on his face. “You will be Slaid’s little whore, now.” He rubbed the front of his trousers. “Slaid’s whore, and no other’s. Not the Devil Fighter’s, not no one’s.” With a cloying lilt in his voice, he sang her name. “Lit—tle who—ore…?” After a moment he gave up, descending the ladder and hurrying from the barn. He needed to stay by the old man’s side to show his concern, and to be there when he found the girl. If she disappeared now, all his hard work would have been for nothing.

**

Florabel huddled, unseen and unheard, behind the far bale of hay in the loft, locked inside herself, unaware of anything until Slaid had climbed the ladder. Hearing every word he said, she hugged her legs, trying to be as small and quiet as possible. She heard both farmhands calling her name from various areas around the farm. She wouldn’t answer—couldn’t answer. Mesmerized by a twisted knot in a piece of wood on the wall, she focused on its dark swirl as the horrific images of her mother’s and Dean’s dead bodies repeated on a loop in her brain.  
  
“Mama.” She rocked herself back and forth. “Mama…Mama…Mama…” She chanted the name over and over. “Mama…”

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Silence descended after Florabel finished the whole story, including the day of her mother’s death and the incredible morning after when Slaid summoned the wind demon. The hunters looked from one to another, stunned.  
  
Bobby cleared his throat and spoke, breaking the others from their horrified trances. “From everything you’ve told us about that morning—what Slaid did—I think we might have a small window of opportunity. We now know, at least, one solid time when and where Slaid manifested the elemental, right down to the date and approximate time.  
  
Sam stopped pacing. “What are we waiting for?” Turning, he headed for the door. “Let’s go.”  
  
“Hold up, Sam,” Bobby said. “We need to make sure we have all our ducks in a row this time. We went in there half-cocked last night and we all came close to _goin’ down in history_ ourselves. We’re gonna have to make sure we have all the necessary spell components, and I’m gonna need a few different items in order to alter the spell.”  
  
“Spell?” Florabel raised an eyebrow.  
  
Ellen shifted, rousing herself. “It’s how we’re gonna get Dean back. Slaid summoned a wind demon. It’s a very low order entity, barely sentient. It’s a type of elemental,” she added, seeing Florabel’s confused expression. “It’s mostly energy. Extremely potent. They’ve been used as bridges or portals by people in the past. Dean fell through one and came out the only way open to him.”  
  
“You mean the night Slaid first summoned the thing?”  
  
Ellen nodded. “That’s what we assume, yes. Thanks to you, we know the portal was open on April 20, 1935. We’re gonna alter our original retrieval spell so it grabs him from a point in time, rather than a point in space like we tried last night. It could work. It should work.”  
  
“It may have already worked.” Bobby cocked his head at the other hunters. “I mean, from what Florabel described, it may have already happened on some level. Ain’t no way to know for sure until we try.”  
  
“Which we need to do, and soon.” Sam moved toward the door again. “Thanks for all of the information, Dr. Livingston.”  
  
“Wait,” Florabel said. “If’n you do git him back, you’ll need to git him to a hospital as soon as possible. He had—has, I mean—he has extensive injuries, not to mention that he’s suffering from Silicosis. He’ll need medical attention immediately.”  
  
“Silicosis? What’s that?” Sam furrowed his brows.  
  
“It’s what we called Dust Pneumonia back in the day. It’s a lung disorder. It’s also been called _Coal Miner’s lung_.” Florabel closed her eyes, concentrating. “It’s been so long, but I remember he also had severe head trauma, definitely a concussion if not a skull fracture.” She flinched, shuddering. “I remember the flies.” She opened her eyes. “You’ll need a hospital, preferably one better than what we have here in Boise City.”  
  
The three hunters glanced at each other. “Well…shit.” Bobby scratched his stubble.  
  
“What?” Florabel asked. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“It’s just that…” Sam ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes in frustration. “Dean is sort of…he’s kind of…”  
  
“He’s on the outs with the law,” Bobby said. “Not for nothing he’s done wrong. Sometimes in our line of work people mistake what we’re doing for…”  
  
“Grave desecration,” Ellen said. Florabel goggled at them.  
  
“Credit card fraud,” Bobby added with half a grin. Florabel cocked her head.  
  
“Bank robbery.” Ellen shrugged sheepishly. Florabel’s jaw hinged.  
  
“Murder,” Sam added without emotion. Florabel’s eyes closed and then boomeranged open.  
  
She coughed. “Murder?” Are you kidding me?”  
  
“No, but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty.” Sam shook his head. “Still, going to a hospital isn’t possible. It’s too dangerous. There was an…incident involving a shapeshifter not long ago.”  
  
Florabel batted her eyelashes furiously. “Shapeshifter?”  
  
“It’s…” Ellen began.  
  
“Not important right now.” Sam interrupted, fanning his hands.  
  
Florabel nodded, absorbing and moving on as best she could. “Okay, we’ll bring him here, then. I’ll git supplies from the day clinic. But I may not be enough to help him.”  
  
“We all have medical training after a fashion,” Bobby said. “Our job often times leaves us to fend for ourselves. We’ll help.”  
  
“But getting him back is our first priority.” Sam was on the move again. “So let’s go.”  
  
“Jesus, Sam…will y’hold on?” Bobby grabbed him. “What part of being smart and ready don’t you understand? We can’t even get into the site for several more hours.”  
  
Ellen sighed. “I wish we could have persuaded Gerry to shut down. It’s not safe. Those spirits could attack anyone at any time.”  
  
“Gerry?” Florabel piped up. “Gerry Burnett?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s him,” Sam said. “He threw me out when I tried to convince him the site was too dangerous for the workers.”  
  
Florabel snorted. “The idiot.” She stood. “Take me to that future Darwin Award winner. I’ll straighten him out. This is one thing I can handle.” She looked at each in turn. “Well?” She waved them off. “I don’t know about you, but I want t’see my friend again. Let’s git ready and go fetch him.”

* *

 _April 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Florabel could no longer see her knot of wood for the twilight that trickled into the barn, filling the small spaces around her. Without its soothing swirls to hold her firm, her thoughts unraveled, and she began to panic. She’d been sitting there for long hours, unmoving, chanting her mama’s name and holding herself still and small, fascinated by the blemish in the golden wood, one of the mysterious planks that had shown up when Dean first arrived.  
  
She’d stayed there all day, frozen in place and in thought, ceasing her chant only when she heard Slaid or Old Jeb calling her name. Then she’d huddle in the corner, all but tunneling into the bale of hay to get away from the voices, curling in on herself and waiting until it grew quiet.  
  
The last time she heard them they’d been angry and arguing with each other. She hadn’t understood what they said, their voices too muffled, too far away. And so she stayed hid—stayed safe.  
  
It’d been a long time, now, since she heard them, and the darkness slithering through the barn frightened her. She had no anchor, nothing to prevent her seeing her mama lying with her dress rumpled, panties around her knees—nothing to stop her from seeing Pally being killed by Slaid—nothing to stop Slaid from finding her and jabbing her until she was dead, too.  
  
She tried to rock and hum, but it didn’t help. Pally was dead. _Her mama was dead._ Her mama was dead. No amount of humming and rocking could help that. She’d promised never to tell about Slaid jabbing her, but she’d told Pally anyway—and now look what happened. Slaid had jabbed her mama just like he said he would, and he’d killed them both. It was all her fault. Guilt, terror and grief overwhelmed her, sending her flinching until she flung her arms over her head, trying to protect herself from the image of her mother’s half-closed eyes staring right through her.  
  
It was in that moment, bent to the ground, cowering and quivering, that she felt it—a soft, cool breeze tickling the nape of her neck. She touched the tender skin and small hairs drenched in sweat. Another draft stirred and fluttered by, along with the familiar sound of her mama’s voice, whispering her name. For the first time since she’d crawled into the loft, she stood and peered over the bale of hay that had sheltered her all this while.  
  
“Mama?”  
  
 _Florabel. Baby girl._  
  
Florabel swallowed and loosed a small sigh. “Mama, I cain’t see you. Where are you?”  
  
She felt the answer more than she heard it, her mama’s voice penetrating her heart and mind rather than her ears. She listened to what her mama said, and she responded.  
  
“Okay, Mama. I’m comin’.”  
  
She tottered to the ladder and descended. Her pants felt wrong and clingy, and she winced, staring down, mortified that she’d wet herself at some point. And here she was, all of eight years old, too. What would people think? She covered the wet mark with her hand to hide her shame and ran from the barn.  
  
Muffled voices and lantern light spilled from the bunkhouse. Still angry. Still arguing. Florabel paid them no mind and hurried to the front of the house, opening the screen door as quietly as possible, making sure not to let it bang behind her. Tiptoeing through the dark house as though she were avoiding landmines, she faltered by the spot where her mama had lain. Florabel’s eyes searched the kitchen floor where Pally had fallen, but all that remained was a sticky puddle of dark blood. Maybe they’d both been buried already. Footprints tracked across the bloodstain, smearing into her mama’s good parlor rug. The blood scared her and she squealed, stopping only when her mama’s voice told her not to think on it. She gulped, lip quivering, but she minding what her mama said.  
  
The floorboards creaked as she made her way through the kitchen and down the hallway, stopping when she saw the still form lying on Pally’s bed. She padded over and leaned against the mattress, watching her mama, scanning her from head to toe, committing each feature to memory. Crawling onto the bed, she settled herself close and laid her head against her mama’s heart, and she remained like that for a long while before she spoke.  
  
“I don’t hate you, Mama. I shouldn’t ‘a said that,” she whispered at last.  
  
She cocked her head, listening, then smiled—relieved.  
  
“I’m glad, Mama. I was worried you’d think it were so. It ain’t.”  
  
She quieted, closed her eyes. No warmth came from her mother’s body, but she took comfort from it, nevertheless. Florabel knew her mother wasn’t in there, but it was familiar. So familiar. She rubbed her mother’s hand, Florabel’s fingers ghosting serene patterns—her mother’s hand that had worked so hard for so many years, kneading bread, scrubbing dust off the floor, smoothing her daughter’s cheek, braiding her hair, wiping drool from Henry’s chin. Florabel held the hand in hers, remembering the little scar at the base of her mama’s thumb, a souvenir from falling off her horse on her fourteenth birthday. The waxy limb had already stiffened, but Florabel kissed the scar, nonetheless. She quirked her head, listening.  
  
“I’ll try and be good,” she said in response to something. “But you know me. ‘Course Old Jeb says _if’n y’ain’t makin’ mistakes now an’ agin, y’ain’t tryin’ hard enough!_ ” She used her best ‘old man’ voice, her mouth twitching into a smile. She sighed and pleated her brows. “Mama, is Henry and Papa there?” She sat up, concerned. “But why ain’t you goin’ to see ‘em? Mama? I thought you’d want to see them gates with gold and diamonds on ‘em. Don’t you want to?”  
  
Another strong gust of wind flew through the room, and the sheet hanging over the window billowed to the floor, spilling light into the room. Florabel scooched down the length of the bed and slipped off the end. Tiptoeing over, she stood in the pool of moonlight; its marrowy glow shawled her body as she looked up.  
  
The dusty disk of the full moon chased all but the brightest stars away, and she thought about Pally and his promise. She began to cry, mourning for him all over again.  
  
Cocking her head, she brightened. “He ain’t?” She reached up to the cool glass, touching the moon with her fingertips. “But I thought Slaid—” She stopped short as though interrupted.  
  
She swallowed, her eyes flitting around, searching for something. Spying her little doctor’s kit on the floor, she snatched it up.  
  
“I will, Mama. Quick, as a jackrabbit!”  
  
All business, she scurried around the room, tossing bottles of medicine and the wooden box of skunk oil into her kit. She stopped again, listening. “Okay, Mama.” She pulled off the pillowcase next to her mother’s body, dipping it in the bucket of water by the window and wringing it out. Tossing it over her shoulder, she dashed for the door. She stopped, shoulders drooping, and walked back to her mother’s body.  
  
Smoothing a ghostly wisp of her mama’s hair, she kissed her. “I’ll love you forever, Mama. You really should go see Henry and Papa, now.” Florabel took one last look and then ran from the room.  
  
She made her way to the barn. The men’s heated discussion in the bunkhouse raged on, but Florabel left them to it, letting the darkness of the barn shelter and hide her. When she reached the trapdoor, she spent a moment dislodging the wooden beam from the door handles. Old Jeb had wedged it tight, and it took sitting on her bottom and kicking at it with all her might to jar it loose. Once done, she clutched her doctor’s kit and descended into the stuffy, rancid darkness.  
  
She found the lamp by touch and grabbed the small box of matches next to it. Tapping a lit match to the twisted wick, she replaced the chimney and set the lamp on the bloody table. Glancing around, none of the shadowy horrors in the room registered, not even the long tendrils of entrails hanging from the rafters like tinsel held her attention. She merely batted them away as she made her way to Dean.  
  
If her mama hadn’t told her different, she’d have thought he was dead. He lay in a heap on the floor, head swathed in blood that had channeled down and pooled in his shirt. The little girl squealed at the swarm of hungry flies attracted by Penny’s corpse now feasting on Dean’s bloody face. She shooed them away with the pillowcase, but they relit immediately.  
  
She dropped to her knees. “Oh, Pally…” His chest bubbled like a gaslight as he struggled to breathe through the pneumonia, head angled against his shoulder, a light foam trickling into his shirt. She moved his head so he could breathe easier.  
  
“Huhhh…”  
  
Florabel jumped when he groaned.  
  
“Pally?”  
  
She drew her hand over the matted hair on his forehead, wiping the gore away with the wet cloth, carefully—ever so carefully, as though she were wiping her mama’s finest china. The blood saturating his shirt had dried, leaving it sticky and stiff. She plucked the gluey fabric away from his skin.  
  
“Hhhhuuhh…” He moaned again, quieter this time, no more than a spent hum.  
  
“I’m here, Pally. Please wake up, now. Mama says we need to go. It ain’t safe for us here.” She daubed at the creamy saliva trickling from his mouth and wiped some more blood from his head and cheek. She whimpered. “Please, Pally.”  
  
His eyelids fluttered but never opened. Florabel knelt over him and lifted each lid in turn, noticing how cockeyed they were, one pupil huge, the other a tiny dot. She didn’t know what that meant, but it scared her. He was hurt bad, she knew that much.  
  
“Pally, if’n Slaid finds us…” She choked on the thought and stifled a sob.  
  
She undid a few buttons of his shirt and pulled out the box of skunk oil and small tin of turpentine. She mixed the two, mimicking how her mother always folded them together with her fingertips, smoothing it into a buttery paste. She rubbed it on his chest, and then put some on her own.  
  
“There,” she said, “we smell exactly alike now.” She snuffled and cupped her small hands to his temples. “Please wake up, Pally. I’m scared without you.”  
  
He never spoke, but his eyelids twitched again. The pungent musk of the skunk oil and heady odor of turpentine must have hit him, because his head ticked as though he were trying to move away from her hands.  
  
“Uhhnngh.” His eyebrows pinched, forehead knotting. He was hurting—bad.  
  
Florabel knew no matter how bad the danger, Dean wouldn’t be able to move from the cellar. Not tonight, anyway. She reached into her kit and retrieved the large bottle of Laudanum. Her mama told her never to give him any. It was too dangerous for little girls to touch. But she remembered Doc Dawson said he could have one capful. She unscrewed the bottle and poured enough of the liquid to fill the small cap. She bent over his mouth and pried it open. Tipping the cap, she let the syrup drip into his throat. He gagged and coughed most of it back in Florabel’s face.  
  
“Pally, don’t.” She toweled the brown liquid away, whimpering. She couldn’t tell if he’d gotten any in him or not, but she was too afraid to give him more. So that was that. Sighing, she capped the bottle. He coughed some more, his brow pinched with misery. Florabel remembered her mama saying how horrible Laudanum tastes.  
  
“I’m sorry, Pally. I don’t got no water.” Water. Saying the word triggered her thirst and it soon became her sole focus. She hesitated a moment, biting her lip before making up her mind. “I’ll be right quick.”  
  
Stealing her way to the well, she grabbed a small bucket and filled it with as much water as she could carry. She drank deep, then stood a moment, listening. The night was quiet; no more arguing voices came from the bunkhouse. That frightened her. If they weren’t quarreling, perhaps they were hunting her, and if Slaid caught her without Old Jeb around…  
  
Florabel shivered, feeling naked and scared. The root cellar smelled horrible, but Pally was there, at least, and it wasn’t so open. She ran back as fast as she could without spilling the water. Shutting the trapdoor, she descended and knelt by Dean.  
  
“I brung you some water, Pally.” She pried his lips open then scooped some water into her hand, tilting it into his mouth. He began choking on that, too.  
  
“I’m sorry, Pally,” she cried in frustration and worry. “Shhh, don’t fret now.”  
  
She tried rolling him over onto his side so he could breathe easier, but she didn’t have the strength or leverage. After a moment he hushed and went back to sleep, so she let him be. Water would have to wait. She didn’t dare try again. Her mama had always been an expert at getting him to drink when he wasn’t awake. The little girl released a quivering sigh as the thought touched off her grief. She opened the large pocket of Dean’s bib and slid the Laudanum bottle inside.  
  
“Maybe we can try agin later.” Huddling close to him, she coiled herself into the crook of his arm. “It’ll be okay, Pally.” He gurgled low in his throat at that, but Florabel didn’t know if it was an answer or not.  
  
“Mama’s dead.” She tucked herself against his fevered warmth and clung to him. “She says ain’t goin’ to Heaven until we’s safe.”  
  
Her face pinched and she succumbed to her grief, releasing it in long, shuddering sobs. She buried herself in Dean’s side, wailing for her mother until she exhausted herself, and even then her body contracted and spasmed. After a long while, she fell asleep amidst the low groans coming from Dean’s throat and the buzz of fat flies gorging themselves on his blood and the other filth someone had thrown on him.

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Blue sky speckled the cloud cover, breaking up the rain. Frosty air puffed from the mouths of the foursome huddled in front of the construction site. Florabel took in her surroundings.  
  
“It all looks so different.” Her eyes wandered around, searching for familiar swells and dips of the land, trying to marry this site to her memories. “I couldn’t even tell you where the barn or house once stood.” She lifted her small, thin hand to her cheek. “I ain’t been out here in over seventy years. Lived in this town for all this time ‘cept my college years, and I ain’t never come back here. Not since that day.”  
  
Ellen put an arm around the old woman’s shoulder, breaking her reverie. “Come on, Florabel. Let’s go see if we can talk to Gerry.”  
  
They walked up to the trailer and knocked. When Gerry opened the door he morphed from friendly to hostile in less than a second.  
  
“Nuh-uh.” He shook his head, pointing at Sam. “You, out of here before I call the cops.”  
  
“Cops?” Florabel’s face puckered. “You damn go-cart racin’, mouth-breathing _Jackass_ reject, git your ass in that trailer. You an’ me is gonna have a talk.”  
  
Gerry gawped, noticing the old woman for the first time. “Aw, Mad Dog, geez.”  
  
The old woman’s eyes flamed like cinders. She snapped her fingers and pointed at him as she maneuvered up the high, narrow steps.  
  
“Give me your damn hand, ninny. I’m an old woman and only five-foot-two. Didn’t your mama teach you no manners?”  
  
Gerry sighed and offered her his hand. “Yes ma’am,” he said, cowed. He turned as Florabel kicked the door closed behind them.  
  
The three hunters waited outside, shit-eating grins on their faces as muffled shouts and unmanly yelps wafted from the trailer. There was one large thump and a strange, whirring crack. All three hunters winced.  
  
“That had to hurt.” Bobby said with a snort.  
  
After a few more bangs, Gerry surfaced, flinging open the trailer door and dropping to the ground. He had his radio to his cheek, barking orders into it as he walked away looking both annoyed and whipped at the same time. A moment later Florabel stood in the doorway with a satisfied nod.  
  
“Right.” She rubbed her hands. “So, Gerry says the boys will be cleared out within the hour. They won’t reopen until we give them the say-so.”  
  
“You sure weren’t jokin’ about handling it, were you?” Sam took her hand, helping her down the steps.  
  
“Like I said…a woman after my own heart,” Ellen added. “So what’s the plan?”  
  
Bobby tugged his cap. “We need to pick up a few things before we begin. Ellen, why don’t you take Florabel home while Sam and I go get what we need and meet back in about an hour?”  
  
“Like hell,” Florabel said. They turned to her in shock. “I ain’t a-leavin’. This is my fight as much as yours. More, in fact. I ain’t a-budgin’.”  
  
“Florabel, this is extremely dangerous. You could get hurt. Dean would kill us if we let anything happen to you. I can hear him now. And you think Gerry had it rough a moment ago?” Sam put his hand on her shoulder, but Florabel dug her heels in.  
  
“I’m old, but I ain’t feeble. I’m stayin’ put. When you git him back, he’ll need doctorin’. I ain’t leavin’ him alone, now.” She closed her eyes, remembering something. “I ain’t gonna never forget the look on his face at that last moment. He knew he was gonna die, but he didn’t stop. He saved me. An’ I’m gonna return the favor. I don’t care what you say.” She opened her eyes. “Ellen, honey, you an’ me are gonna pay a visit to the day-clinic while these boys git organized. We need a whole lot of supplies and equipment.”  
  
“And you can just walk in there and take it?”  
  
Florabel laughed. “I volunteer there. I have keys. And I can handle anyone who tries to stop us.”  
  
Ellen glanced at the trailer and watched the activity at the construction site as men started walking toward the parking lot. She nodded and grinned. “I can’t argue with that. Let’s go.”  
  
Florabel followed Ellen toward the truck. She stopped by Sam as she passed, touching his sleeve as she met his eye. “Gittin’ home to you was the most important thing in the world to him. We ain’t gonna let him down, Sam. We’ll git your brother back.”

* *

_April 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Awareness kindled slowly, no more than a spark at first—a basal response from his brainstem. There was no thought associated with it, per se, nothing to weigh it against or make a connection with. It was a singularity—a speck of molten dust in the darkness. Pain. The spark lit a fuse that traveled upward, igniting each lobe in turn as disjointed, proto-thoughts began to accrete.

As he hovered on the cusp of oblivion, Dean’s hollow thoughts took on enough form for him to recognize something beyond the agony. He heard a warbling, dirgeful mewl next to him that made his head throb. It sounded like…a cat? A cat was curled at his side, meowing mournfully. He felt its paws on his cheek, and as much as he wanted to bat them away, he couldn’t remember how to lift his hand. The caterwaul hurt, not only its decibel level, but deep down it elicited a response from somewhere beyond the pain. It had weight and meaning. It made him feel a profound sense of loss, somehow, despite not knowing he ever had anything to lose. The constant lilting kept him bouncing and skimming along the surface of consciousness like a pebble on a pond. He could only drift down so far before the plaintive yowling buoyed him back up. After a long while, the cat stopped crying, its sobs diminishing into hiccups and judders that he could feel in his bones. The animal uttered one final sigh of misery before silencing.

“ _Mama…_ ”

With that, both Dean and the cat slipped beneath the waves, all thought and pain forgotten.


	18. Hard Travelin'

__

 

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Bobby eyed Florabel as she waited next to the collapsible field-stretcher just outside the building. He’d refused her entry until the banishing pentagrams and protective circle had been retouched from the previous night’s disaster. The old woman and Ellen had returned with the truck-bed loaded with medical supplies, most of the equipment having been set up at the farm, ready for their patient. It worried Bobby how much they’d brought with them for triage. He had no doubt the woman knew her shit. It terrified him to think what shape the boy might be in when they got him back. _If_ they got him back.  
  
Despite the chill in the air, Bobby removed his cap and wiped sweat from his hairline. Next to him, Sam stood, a column of twitchy energy.  
  
“This is it, Bobby. It has to happen this time.”  
  
“I know it, kid. I know.” Bobby gave Sam a tight-lipped nod and spray-painted the finishing touches on the banishing sigils. Waving to Ellen, he gave her the all clear to bring Florabel in now that everything had been set.  
  
Sam continued to stew at his side, the worry lines on his forehead bending and swirling like a topographical map. “We’ve been here an hour and no sign of them yet. Where are they, Bobby?”  
  
“Steady on, boy. Don’t want ‘em to show until we’re ready, anyway.” Bobby pointed to the circle as Florabel entered. “Step in there and don’t leave, no matter what happens.”  
  
Florabel studied the runes and the smoldering herbs within the circle with fascination. Glancing up, she squinted at the sky visible through the collapsed roof.  
  
“Drafty.” She searched the rest of the room. “Is he here yet?”  
  
“Not yet,” Bobby said. “All three of you get in. I don’t know how long we’ll have to wait—” A frigid blast of air interrupted him. “Well, that answers that. Everybody in!”  
  
“Finally.” Sam drew Florabel into the protective circle, his jaw clenched, body wound as tight as a hairspring. “Get him back, Bobby. Please.”  
  
The hunters stood, senses alert, salt guns poised and ready. Bobby spun around, swiveling this way and that, scanning the room for movement.  
  
“Where are you, you bastard?” He turned, pivoting in another circular sweep. The blast caught him on his right side, sending him flying toward the inside wall, both gun and mirror clattering to the floor.  
  
“Bobby!” Sam shouted, jumping from the circle and running to the downed hunter. His sawed-off flew from his hand and crashed into the wall-studding behind them. When Bobby scrambled to grab the mirror, Slaid’s spirit flickered and bent over the two men. Despite the danger, Bobby huffed in relief seeing the mirror still in one piece.  
  
“ _Ördög_ Fighters come for more fun?” The spirit laughed and aimed another punch of energy that sent them sailing.  
  
Florabel watched with wide, frightened eyes. “Slaid! No!”  
  
The ghost froze in place, surprise, shock, and lust crisscrossing its face, morphing from one emotional response to the next as it turned to face Florabel. Its perverted mouth stretched impossibly wide, twisting into an angular, macabre grin as the spirit flickered and winked toward the circle. Florabel’s hand moved down, covering herself. No doubt, seventy-two years was not long enough to heal some wounds. The old woman backed away from the madness in its eyes.  
  
“Little one.” Slaid ogled her with depraved admiration and desire. “You’ve finally returned to me.”

* *

 _April 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
When Dean came to himself, he was unable to measure or gauge his experience against the passage of time. Hours, minutes, days remained meaningless, the measure more quantifiable in terms of clarity of thought. And for Dean, clarity was patchy at best. Most thoughts sluiced off soon after formation, puddling and evaporating like rainwater on a summer roof.  
  
Both thought and time continued to be erratic and jumpy. One moment the cat would be meowing on one side of him, the next it would be on the other without him ever having been aware of its movement. The only constant was the relentless Doppler buzz around his ears and soft movements on his face. That never stopped.  
  
There came a point when he began to recognize words, plucking them out of the babble and hanging onto them for longer periods of time before they swirled away. _Pally_ , _Mama_ , and _please_ were particularly significant and powerful. His body responded by ticking and jolting with the words, striving to interact, wanting to establish contact with the voice. Something cool pressed against his temple, and he leaned into it. It soothed the fire on his skin and dulled the ache in his head.  
  
Time shuffled and the cloth was gone. The little thing with the mewling voice lay curled at his side. It babbled to him, desperate and insistent that he open his eyes, repeating the request over and over like a mantra. He really wanted to remain in the darkness, but the urgency and worry in that young voice compelled him to do as it asked. And so he tried. He struggled to lift his lids. A gasp of breath came from that small, pleading voice.  
  
“That’s it. Keep tryin’, Pally. I know you can do it!” Pain erupted in his head and he moaned. “Mmnnuugh!” The little thing shifted at his side, and all the flies on his face took flight. With his heat source removed, Dean trembled and shivered uncontrollably. “Open your eyes, Pally” Small fingers gripped his jaw and shook his head, causing sharper barbs of pain to shoot through his skull. He fought to bring his hand up to stop the shaking. “Nuhhh…” His hand fell against the offending limb and the warm digits moved away from his chin.  
  
“You awake, Pally?”  
  
He realized he knew the voice, and despite the pain he dug for a name. Someone took his hand and stroked it.  
  
“Please. You gotta wake up. I don’t know what to do, Pally!” Florabel’s voice quavered with need.  
  
 _Florabel_  
  
The name came to him, and his eyelids snapped open in response. He paid a price for that, however, as a jagged agony exploded in his temple.  
  
“Gnnghhuh.” He fought the pull to close his unfocused eyes. Florabel sat next to him, whimpering. He reached out his arm, fumbling it into her. “’Bel…” He turned his head toward her—an unfortunate choice. “Ughggh…” He sucked in air, riding a miserable wave of nausea.  
  
The little girl sniffled and grabbed his hand. “Pally!” He flinched away from her loud voice. “Can you hear me? Do you want some water?”  
  
He blinked in response and shifted his body. Florabel pressed a dripping cloth between his teeth, and he latched on, milking the moisture from it, washing away some of the pasty bitterness in his mouth. Florabel dipped the cloth again then daubed his face with it, cooling his heated skin. He swallowed and relaxed into the small relief it provided. Everything was stiff and sore, and the ground was hard beneath him. Why wasn’t he in bed? He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them.  
  
“Wha’ time s’it?”  
  
“Dunno. I cain’t tell, but I think it’s tomorrow.” Florabel snuggled into him, laying her head on his chest, snuffling against it. “Mama don’t want us to stay here, Pally. She says it ain’t safe.”  
  
“Mmm…Mama? Emma?” He took a deep breath and tried to think things through. “Whhh’r’s Emma?” He wished she were there now. Her soft, capable hands always soothed and comforted him. Florabel whimpered, cheek pressed to his chest, looking into his eyes. He saw two of her in the weak lamplight.  
  
“Mama’s dead. Don’t you remember, Pally?”  
  
The words penetrated and he jolted with the memory of Emma lying on the floor. Adrenaline flooded his body, and he lurched up only to collapse against Florabel, nearly burying her beneath him. She scurried out of the way as he fell onto his side.  
  
“Ffffuuuuck!” Everything went dark as pain and grief pressed him into the dirt floor. He lay panting for a moment while Florabel wept at his side. “Emma,” he whispered.  
  
“Mama don’t want us to cry, Pally,” Florabel said even though her own tears flowed freely. “She don’t want us to be here. Can you git up so’s we can go? Mama says it’s too dangerous to stay.”  
  
Dean made a hard-fought attempt to lever himself up but failed. Black blobs surged in front of his eyes, lava-lamping up and down in time to the throbs in his head. It took a moment for them to dissipate before he could move. With Florabel’s help, he pushed off the ground, flopping against the earthen wall.  
  
“Emma?” He panted through the nausea and confusion.  
  
Florabel sat on her knees and pet Dean’s face. “Mama says we need to git.”  
  
“Says?” His head felt huge and ugly, like one of those lumpy, hairy, toothy tumors. Ghastly and inhuman. Florabel split into four and then rejoined into two images as he strove to focus—the best his vision could do.  
  
He struggled to thread his diaphanous thoughts together. Right. Emma’s advice. “Where’s Emma?”  
  
Florabel frowned. “I told you, Pally. Mama’s dead.”  
  
Dean couldn’t understand her. She made no sense. How could Emma tell them to go if she was dead? His eyes closed as he slumped into the wall.  
  
“Don’t go to sleep, Pally, please!”  
  
His eyes opened, bewildered. “M’here.”  
  
“Can you walk?”  
  
He gave her a weak grin. “Don’ think m’goin’ anywhere, swee’hear’.” He coughed, his eyes bulging in agony. “Ffuck! “Hur’s!” He rubbed his chest with clumsy hands. “Wh’r’s Sam?”  
  
Florabel patted him, but her composure slipped. “Please talk sense, Pally. Don’t be hurt no more. I don’t know wh—” Voices above them cut her off. “Mama!” She gasped the word like a desperate prayer. “It’s them!” Goosebumps rose on her arms and she shivered in terror. “Slaid!”  
  
As he watched Florabel’s huge eyes and heard the footsteps overhead, the neurons and synapses in Dean’s brain began firing, and he realized what was happening.  
  
“Hide!” Dean whispered, levering himself into a sitting position.  
  
His eye staggered around the small cellar. The only structures and furniture were the shelves along one of the walls and the big wooden stand. The few barrels and crates were far too small to offer concealment. Boot-thumps and voices traveled down from above.  
  
“Slaid, did you open this?” Jeb’s muffled voice accused him. “Did you come here after I told you to leave him be?”  
  
“I’ve done nothing!” Slaid’s wounded retort came as the door handle rattled and opened with a squeak.  
  
Dean pointed to the large stand. _There!_ He mouthed the word. Florabel ran behind it and crouched down.  
  
“Who lit the lamp, then?” Jeb descended with Slaid close behind. Reaching the bottom, he saw Dean and he stopped short. Jeb’s eyes reflected a war within, relief and worry, anger and disgust swirled across his face.  
  
“You’s awake,” he said, his tone flat.  
  
Dean strove for breath. “Jeb.” He reached toward the man, pleading. Jeb turned to him and swallowed, his eyes glittering with grief and confusion in the lamplight. He knelt, swatting at the flies haloing Dean’s bloody head.  
  
“We’s gonna git you some help.” Jeb said. “Gonna fetch Sheriff Burnett, an’ him and his boys’ll take care ‘a you.”  
  
Dean reached out again, attempting to make physical contact with the old man, but his double vision interfered with his depth perception, and he kept misjudging the distance. After several tries, Jeb caught his hand, anchoring Dean as the young man strove to speak.  
  
“Jeb.” He gripped Jeb’s hand like a lifeline. “M’not the one. Di’n’ hur’ her. Y’got t’believe me.”  
  
Jeb’s brows pinched, his earnest, sincere eyes searching Dean’s. He cleared his throat, his face dulling as he emotionally detached himself. “Don’t matter what I think, boy. We’ll let them smarter folks figure this out.”  
  
Dean fisted Jeb’s shirt and groaned. “Nnhuhh, Jeb.” His lashes fluttered as he fought to stay conscious. “Jeb…” He squinted and bobbled, trying to keep his train of thought. “Slai’ ki—” His voice hitched, weakening, “—kill’ Emma. N’me. Please, Jeb. Don’ care ‘bout me. But Flor’bel—y’got t’help her.”  
  
Jeb bent close, trying to catch the slurred, mangled words. “Slaid?” He gripped Dean’s hand, tugging to keep him awake. “What about him? What about Florabel? We’s gonna find her an’ she’ll be fine, now.”  
  
“Nuhhnh.” Frustrated at the miscommunication, Dean sucked air and tried again. “Slai’ killed—” Pain exploded in Dean’s side as Slaid kicked him, sending him sprawling. Before he could recover or Jeb could react to Slaid’s unnecessary violence, a small squeal came from behind the wooden stand. Slaid turned immediately.  
  
“Slai’,” Dean yelled, sending more barbs of pain shooting through his skull. “Slaid!” He tried to keep Slaid’s attention, but the man paid no heed. He walked toward the table. “Nuhh, don’…” Dean kicked out with his foot, scraping the dirt in fear and frustration, trying to trip the farmhand, anything to stop him.  
  
Slaid reached down. “Well, hello there, little one.” He lifted Florabel as she shrieked and kicked at him.  
  
Dean attempted to stand, but vertigo leveled him and he fell facedown into an old rabbit carcass.  
  
“Florabel!” Jeb ran to her.  
  
“Old Jeb!” She tried to grasp hold of him. “Don’t let him take me! Mama! Pally! Help me!”  
  
“Let her go, Slaid.” Jeb pried the girl from Slaid’s grip. “Jesus, boy! She’s out’a her head. You’s scarin’ her.” She scrabbled into his arms, chuffing and quivering, eyes mindless and wild as they ping-ponged around the room. “There, there.” Jeb hugged her to him. “It’s all right, doll. I’ve got you. Calm down, sweetheart. We was worried sick about you.”  
  
Slaid grabbed Dean by his collar, shoving him into the wall. The hunter grunted, his eyes rolling back as he flirted with unconsciousness. Slaid hauled him up by his hair, swaying him back and forth as he slapped the man’s cheek, laughing riotously when Dean tried to grab Slaid’s abusive hand and repeatedly missed.  
  
“Devil Fighter is still half asleep.” He slapped Dean harder. “Wake up, you!”  
  
“No! Old Jeb, don’t let him hurt Pally! Florabel struggled to get down, but the old farmer held her tight.  
  
“Slaid, knock it off!” Jeb roared.  
  
Slaid turned and gave Jeb a devious grin before letting Dean fall in a heap. He continued to nudge Dean’s head with his boot until he groaned in pain.  
  
Jeb lunged for Slaid, tearing him away. “I said stop! I waited until we found the child like you asked. But we’s gonna go git the law out here, now.” Florabel fought to get down, but the old farmer hoisted her higher, pressing her head to his chest  
  
“Let me go. I gotta help Pally!”  
  
Jeb labored to hold onto a squirming girl as she thrashed her way out of his arms. “You don’t want to go near him, Florabel. You stay with us, sweetheart.”  
  
She continued to kick her little legs like an Olympic swimmer. “No! Let me go! It weren’t him! Pally didn’t do nothin’ wrong!”  
  
Slaid scoffed. “The child is crazed.”  
  
“It weren’t Pally. Me an’ him was by the tree. We came home and found Mama that a-way. He didn’t hurt her!” She wrenched herself free and ran to Dean, grabbing him as he tipped over. Righting him, she spun around, eyes molten. “Why won’t you believe me?”  
  
“But,” Jeb said, faltering. “That don’t make no sense.”  
  
Slaid pointed to the child. “She’s bewitched. She’s under his spell.”  
  
“No I ain’t neither!” she yelled, straining to keep Dean upright.  
  
“We saw him. Sweetheart, we saw him with your Mama.” Jeb’s breath hitched with the memory of it.  
  
“CPR…” Dean struggled to turn his head toward Jeb.  
  
“What?”  
  
“CPR,” Dean repeated. “S’a ‘suss’tation technique.” He sighed. “Pffpht...pro’lly not invenn’ed yet.”  
  
Despite Florabel’s efforts to hold Dean, his eyes closed and he slid sideways until he lay facedown in the urine-scented dust. His stomach heaved and he added some bile to the dirt so clotted with blood, come, and rot it was nothing more than a crusty, miasmic clay.  
  
Jeb blinked at Slaid. “Wh—what’s he sayin’? What’s CPR?”  
  
“Don’t pay attention to him. Look at this place.” He gestured about him. “See what he is?” He placed his boot on the back of Dean’s head, pressing it into the filthy floor as he laughed. Florabel screamed in outrage.  
  
“You, leave him be!” She kicked dirt at Slaid’s shins. “Why is you here? Mama tol’ you to git, but you wouldn’t. Why’s you here?” She ran to Jeb. “Old Jeb, you gotta believe me. Pally didn’t do nothin’.” She touched his face as he knelt. “You know him. I know you know him, Old Jeb.”  
  
The old farmer huffed and wove his fingers through his gray hair, tugging at the tips.  
  
“She’ll say anything to protect him.” The farmhand paced the floor, growling low in his throat. “He’s put a spell on her.”  
  
“You hurt Mama an’ blamed Pally for it.” She looked at Dean and made a decision. Turning to the old farmer, she sucked in a breath. “I know Slaid hurt Mama, because he…,” she swallowed, “because he hurt me, too. Slaid hurt me, Old Jeb—when Henry died and you was tendin’ Mama. He took me to the bunkhouse and he hurt me…here.” She pointed to her privates. Jeb’s intake of breath cut the sudden silence in the room. “He jabbed me so hard.” Her words became wet with tears. “He told me never to tell or he’d hurt you and Mama, and now she’s dead. I don’t want Slaid to jab you, but it’s the truth. Pally didn’t do nothing, Old Jeb, please believe me.”  
  
“She lies!” Slaid paced like a hunted animal. “I’ve heard enough.” He grabbed Dean, pulling him to his knees. He spun on Jeb. “I don’t care what you say anymore old man. I’m finishing this. Devil Fighter is putting lies in her head!”  
  
Florabel yanked Slaid’s arm, screaming. “Stay away from him!” Her small hands balled into furious fists and she pounded them against him. “Git away!”  
  
Slaid’s unexpected, swift backhand sent Florabel sprawling into a heap by the table. She put a clumsy hand to her cheek as she blinked in dazed surprise.  
  
“What the blazes?” Jeb yelled, shocked and appalled. He went to grab Slaid, but the farmhand pushed him away.  
  
Dean watched as something snapped in Slaid. Perhaps the feel of the child’s flesh against his—the crack of his hand striking her face—unraveled him. His eyes went wild and feral. Dean’s stomach turned when he noticed Slaid’s pants tenting over a blatant hard on. The man no longer restrained himself, and he kicked more dirt and feces into Dean’s face, raging incoherently until Jeb moved to help Florabel.  
  
“Git away from my whore.” He barreled toward Jeb. “She’s mine. As soon as the Devil Fighter’s spell is broken, she will want me.”  
  
“What the hell you going on about?” Jeb looked at Slaid standing there, twitching and ticking with excitement. “Did you do it, Slaid?” Jeb flushed and his voice held a dark threat. “Did you do what she said?”  
  
Slaid folded his arms and smirked. “I can do whatever I like with my property.” He examined his fingernails, unconcerned. He smiled at Jeb and stomped his foot toward him in a mock attack, causing the older man to startle and recoil. Slaid slapped his thigh and laughed. “Your eyes, old man. So big!” He laughed, imitating Jeb’s horror by gasping and bulging his eyes.  
  
Jeb edged away. “Something’s come undone in your mind, boy.” The old man tried again to move toward the child.  
  
“Ah-ah.” Slaid wagged his finger at him. “ _My_ whore.”  
  
Before Slaid could add anything else, though, Dean kicked his knees from behind, buckling them, throwing him off balance. Slaid grunted and somersaulted out of the way, while Jeb ran to Florabel.  
  
Turning, Slaid gripped Dean by his shirt and slammed him into the wall, laughing at Dean’s feeble attempts to fend him off. “Stay put, Devil Fighter. You don’t look so good.”  
  
“Come on, asshat! M’righ’ here!” Dean strove to keep the lunatic’s attention. It didn’t work.  
  
The farmhand rounded on Jeb as he bent down to Florabel. “Stay away!” He caught the old farmer with his fist and sent him flying into the corner. When blood spilled from Jeb’s mouth, Slaid cheered, dancing around the room like prizefighter.  
  
“I don’t need you anymore.” Slaid pranced and strutted. Snarling, he grabbed Dean. “Now, I’m going to break this spell and take my whore.” Dean flailed against Slaid’s rough hands as he jerked him toward the ladder. “I don’t need you.”  
  
Jeb sat up, staring at Slaid in complete shock. Florabel ran to Dean, clinging to him as Slaid dragged him away.  
  
“No, Florabel.” Dean tried to shake her off. “Run, when y’can. Jus’ run.”  
  
“No! I ain’t leavin’ you,” she cried. “Slaid don’t do it! Don’t hurt him! Please!” Slaid grunted and pushed her away as he hoisted Dean up the first rungs of the ladder.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Slaid, stop!” Jeb wobbled as he rose, hand supporting his jaw. Digging in his pocket he pulled out his gun, pointing it at the farmhand. Adrenaline and fear caused the gun to rattle and shake in his hand. “Don’t do this!”  
  
Florabel kept fighting to hold onto Dean. “Slaid!” she shouted. “I’ll be your whore. Just don’t kill him!”  
  
All activity came to a screaming halt as a stunned silence filled the room.  
  
“I’ll go with you. I’ll let you jab me.” Florabel’s teeth chattered as she continued. “I won’t never leave you. Don’t kill him.” She brushed her hand across Slaid’s knee, pleading. “I’ll be whatever y’want.”  
  
Dean stirred to life. “Florabel, no!” He pushed against Slaid, fighting to get his legs under him. “Florabel, get away from ‘im.”  
  
Neither Slaid nor Florabel paid attention to him. The farmhand studied the girl, considering her offer, perhaps making sure it was genuine.  
  
Slaid craned his neck to whisper in Dean’s ear. “Would love to keep you, too. But…” He let go, and Dean crumpled to the floor. “No!” Dean yelled.  
  
Slaid grabbed the straps of Florabel’s overalls and yanked her up, ascending the ladder, dangling the child like a carpetbag in his hands. With a husky grunt, Slaid disappeared through the trapdoor and slammed it behind him.  
  
“Florabel!” Dean called in vain.

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Slaid advanced with a roar, throwing himself at the old woman. He hit the barrier and ricocheted off the invisible boundary. Undaunted, he tried again with the same result. A snarl of frustration reverberated around the room.  
  
“Whore.” He beckoned to her, his tone commanding. “Come here.”  
  
“You still think you can own me, Slaid? You think summoning this thing would have ever made Mama or me care for you?” She drew herself up. “They ain’t no demon in the world could’a made us belong to you.”  
  
“The _Ördög_ Fighter made you believe that. He ruined you.”  
  
“No. He had nothin’ to do with it.” Florabel walked to the edge of the protective ring, glaring at the spirit. “The only power he ever had was his own goodness and caring, something you never had, Slaid. You tried to take what you wanted without a thought for anyone else. Even if Pally had never shown up, I still wouldn’t a’been yours, nor Mama, neither.”  
  
Sam helped Bobby off the floor. Gripping his ribs and wincing, Sam reached for his gun. “It’s over Slaid.”  
  
The ghost spun around. “No, Devil Fighter.” He stretched his hands apart, tossing cold lightening between them as the wind-demon materialized. “It will never be over. The Hala is mine, at least. It does what I say.”  
  
Had the building been in better repair, another wall would have given way. With the outer walls long gone, however, the Cyclone did not do as much damage when it appeared at the back of the structure. Slaid flung out his hands and attached his energy to it, feeding it as it grew in intensity.  
  
“Inside the circle.” Bobby motioned to Sam. “Hurry. It’s almost time! Keep the salt guns ready and don’t shoot until I tell you. We’ll deal with the spirits another day. Just put them off for now.”  
  
Florabel watched with a faint heart as the black cloud took shape, memories overwhelming her. She shook her head in disbelief. Seventy two years had passed and she still felt as helpless and terrified as she’d been on that horrible day, long ago. So focused on the Cyclone, she didn’t notice the other spirit enter the room, jumping and flitting from one place to the other. It stopped midway between the Cyclone and the hunters and circled around, bumping into the protective field. It hit it a few times, like a bee bouncing against a glass window.  
  
“Back.” Ellen gripped Florabel and pulled her away. “Don’t step outside the circle,”  
  
“What’s happening?” Sam yelled. “Why isn’t it attaching to the Cyclone?”  
  
Bobby watched the spirit hovering around Florabel. “I don’t know!” He shouldered his gun and aimed it at the wobbling image stuttering around the protective circle.  
  
The wind splintered an inner wall and debris flew about them.  
  
“Down!” Sam shouted, shielding Florabel with his body.  
  
When a large piece of wood flew over their heads, the wayward spirit spun, throwing out a strand of electricity, attaching itself to the Cyclone.  
  
“There!” Bobby turned, lifting the mirror. When the blazing core of the Cyclone began to expel its light, he flipped the mirror, throwing the light back onto the wind demon and the spirits. The portal split open with a shattering crack, and Bobby held on for dear life. With a slow, deliberate voice, he intoned the retrieval spell.

* *

 _April 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Dean’s attempt to rise had him lurching like a toddler coming off a merry-go-round. His effort to walk forward only took him sideways, and he just missed cracking his skull on the altar. Jeb ran to him.  
  
“No.” Dean grabbed his shirt. “Help her.” He pointed to the gun in Jeb’s hand. “Stop ‘im. Now, or s’gonna be too late.”  
  
Jeb waffled. “I—I don’t know as I’m steady enough to pull the trigger.” He held up his quaking hands. His chest heaved with shock and terror.  
  
Florabel’s screams receded as Slaid made his way from the barn. “Jeb, hurry.” Dean reached out his hand. “Help me up.” He pointed to the weapon in the old man’s unsteady hand. “Gimme.”  
  
“I got you, son.” Jeb hauled Dean up, shouldering him in a fireman’s carry, climbing the stairs as fast as he could.  
  
Slaid had been in too much of a hurry to block the door, allowing Jeb to push it with his head. Once up, he got Dean on his feet and threaded an arm around his waist, taking on as much weight as he could.  
  
“Gun…” Dean held out his hand, trying to ignore the splintering pain in his head. Adrenaline kept him upright and conscious for the time being, but it wouldn’t last long. Jeb handed him the weapon, and Dean looked down, begging his eyes to cooperate, but he still saw two blurry guns held in two shaky hands.  
  
“Fuck.” He gripped the gun and nodded toward the door. “Go.”  
  
Jeb lumbered from the barn on into the desolate yard. Had the sun not been hidden by blowing dust, Dean would’ve passed out. He held up a hand to shield his eyes, but the light scored through his brain. He stumbled to his knees.  
  
“Up, son.” Jeb adjusted him in his grip and pointed. “Over there. They’re by the bunkhouse.”  
  
Dean opened his eyes and strove to focus. Seeing two smudges in the distance he willed his wobbly legs to move faster. “Slaid!”  
  
The farmhand stopped for a second, but then moved on, trying to put distance between them.  
  
Dean shot the gun in the air. “Stop!”  
  
Slaid froze and turned with a hiss. Jeb continued to bring Dean closer until they were no more than fifty paces apart.  
  
“Let her go, Slaid.” Dean kept his voice steady as he strove to bring the two images of Slaid together, close enough to draw bead. He knew he couldn’t risk a shot in his condition with Florabel so close.  
  
“My whore.” Slaid shifted the little girl in his arms as she struggled and screamed. “She was always mine.” He tossed her over his shoulder, freeing one of his arms. As he spoke his hand glowed with metallic-blue rivulets of electricity. “I will have her. Hala can have you.” In a clamorous voice he chanted an incantation.  
  
“ _Én itt beidéz, Hala. A szél az Ördög!_ ”  
  
A jagged bolt of electricity stabbed the ground not far behind Jeb and Dean. Dust billowed and blew past them as a black dust devil took shape. Whips of lightening lashed out from the dark twister, snaking through the air as though searching for a mark. Florabel shrieked in terror.  
  
“Shit,” Dean said. Slaid jogged away, forcing him to waste another bullet with a warning shot. It brought the farmhand to a halt again. “Florabel!” Dean called. Fingers and spines of electricity crawled from the Cyclone and along the ground toward the two men. The currents connected to Dean, and threads of electricity ran up and down his legs and arms. Jeb let go of him in fear and surprise. The hunter dropped to his knees.  
  
“Dear God!” Jeb watched two groping whips of light flick out and fasten themselves to the back of Dean’s head. The old man tried to pull him to safety, but a powerful shock sent him sprawling into the dirt. Dean’s body pulsed with blue-white light as Jeb got to his feet and made another attempt to grab him.  
  
“Don’t touch me.” Dean waved him off. “Move back.”  
  
“Son...no!” Jeb reached for him again, but Dean jerked away.  
  
He met Jeb’s eye. “G’back and help Florabel.”  
  
Jeb reluctantly backed away as the black dust cloud inched closer.  
  
“Nhhghh!” Dean scrabbled for the gun he’d dropped in the dust. Something was happening—something he couldn’t stop. He peered behind him and noticed the core of the Cyclone glowing. “Oh god, Sammy,” he whispered, horrified as he tried to crawl away. He saw Slaid, rooted in fascination, mesmerized by the destructive force of the wind-demon.  
  
Dean raised the gun. “Florabel!” Spears of hot pain shot through him, and his body went rigid as more currents hooked onto him.  
  
“Pally!” Florabel screamed. “Pally!”  
  
Both Dean and the strange, black cloud glowed with light, pulsing and throbbing in unison. Another lasso of lightening attached itself to him, and his back arched as though he’d been shot. He screamed in pain.  
  
Dean watched Florabel fight against Slaid. When she bit into his shoulder and kicked him, Slaid grabbed her by the hair and slapped her harder than he had in the cellar.  
  
“Florabel!” Dean cried, exhausted and beaten.  
  
He tried to crawl away from the Cyclone. Unlike last time, he felt no outright suction, but an undeniable, magnetic force tugged at his core. Striving to concentrate on Slaid and the child, his senses reeled and the sudden sound a whizzing hummingbirds overwhelmed his senses. Thousands of them.  
  
“Florabel!” He aimed the gun between the two images of Slaid. “Kick him in the jabber!”  
  
Florabel acted quickly, pivoting her leg out as far as it could go and swung it down, hitting her fleshy mark. She tumbled from Slaid’s arms when he collapsed into a windless heap, and she scurried away, running straight for Dean.  
  
“Pally!” She called his name as she ran, but Jeb intercepted her and pulled her toward the barn. Florabel fought the old man, screaming, but he held her firm.  
  
Dean looked at the Cyclone vacuuming up the dust as it bore down upon him. He fought to stand, but the force compelling him would not allow him to get his legs under him. The buzzing sound of hummingbirds grew louder. He felt them as much as heard them, pulling at his solar plexus. His hands shook as the gun started to glow with energy. Time was running out. He noticed Slaid had risen to his knees.  
  
“Hala!” Slaid wheezed in pain. “I’ll have the whore once you’re gone. She’s mine!” He stretched electric currents between his hands, preparing to loose them at Dean.  
  
Dean aimed, relying on his years of experience and training to overcome the concussion. Digging deep, he focused on the monster in front of him, making calculations and corrections for his eyesight, recalibrating his aim to compensate for the double-vision. With the last of his strength, he shot twice and felt absolute satisfaction as the farmhand’s head snapped back and his body plummeted lifelessly into the dust.  
  
“Told ya you weren’t getting much older, fucker!” Dean said. Another wave of energy coursed through him. “Naahghh, Sam!”  
  
Florabel threw her arms toward him. “Pally, NO!”  
  
Dean tried one more time to get away from the Cyclone, but he fell, his hands clawing the dirt for purchase. His senses dulled, and he met Florabel’s eyes as his strength faltered.  
  
“Sorry kiddo…” There was no more fight in him. The hummingbirds pulled at him and the planet began to spin. His shoulders sagged and the gun dropped from his glowing hand.  
  
“Mmnuhh!” He groaned as the currents thrilled through his body.  
  
Several other electric tentacles noosed him. His muscles seized and he bucked and jounced like a marionette on a string. Still more tethers swung free and hooked themselves into him.  
  
“Sam!” he cried, disoriented.  
  
He heard Florabel scream, echoing his suffering. He looked at her one last time.  
  
“Love you, Bel,” he called to her as webs of electricity netted him, dragging him directly into the core of the Cylcone.  
  
His ears popped along with the release of pressure in his head as he capitulated to the elemental. He was keenly aware of his body’s disintegration as the vortex drew him in and cremated him. The last conscious image he had before his eyes turned into globes of liquid light was of Florabel nestled safe and sound in Jeb’s arms. The sight filled him with both regret and relief. Then, light and darkness fused, burning away every thought he ever had, leaving nothing behind but the roaring wind.

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Another inside wall gave way, sending debris spinning through the air and onto the prairie as though expelled from a giant confetti canon. The air crackled and snapped with electricity, blue veins groping along the ground and up the last standing wall. A clap of thunder shook the building and the Cyclone twisted inside out, becoming a crystal, spinning nucleus of light.  
  
Sam heard Bobby chant the final words of the spell, and all four onlookers snapped their eyes shut against the brilliant beam of light that burst forth like a quasar. A shockwave of dust sent Bobby crashing into the wall.  
  
Shielding Florabel, Sam opened his eyes and watched as a body tumbled from the lighted core, landing in a graceless pile on top of some crumbled pieces of drywall. Blue arcs of electricity crackled and rippled over it and then dissipated.  
  
“Sam! Ellen!” Bobby shouted at the top of his lungs. “Get ready to shoot! We won’t have much time once they’re gone.” Tossing the mirror away, he unsheathed a dagger.  
  
As soon as Sam and Ellen took aim he barked the order. “NOW!”  
  
They shot as one, each hitting their mark dead on. Both spirits collapsed and dissolved into coiling eddies of astral dust.  
  
Wasting no time, Bobby turned to the east, touched his forehead. “ _Eheieh_!” Pointing the dagger toward the ground he chanted. “ _Malkuth_!” He continued the banishing ritual as Sam watched the Cyclone ebb without its power source.  
  
“Hurry Bobby!” Sam shouted in horror. “It’s disappearing!”  
  
“ _Le-Olahm Iao_!” Bobby completed a counterclockwise circle and faced east once more. He traced a pentagram in the air. “ _Eheieh_!”  
  
The Cyclone froze as though someone had stopped time or hit a pause button. The wind ceased in an instant.  
  
“What the…” Sam marveled.  
  
“Don’t move!” Bobby boomed a warning to the others.  
  
He tossed the dagger in the air, and catching it by the blade, he threw it full force into the static elemental. With a soft snick, a vacuum sucked in all sound and light as the entire Cyclone collapsed in on itself. Then, with a splintering crack it exploded like a supernova, shattering into a million pieces of light. The onlookers ducked and covered their heads, but the shrapnel had no form or matter. The debris disappeared like the sparks of a firework. Absolute silence descended in the aftermath of the explosion.  
  
Sam recovered first, rousing from his stunned awe.  
  
“Dean!” Panic overtook him as he ran to the figure on the floor—too thin and gaunt to be his brother, skinny arms and legs askew. “It’s not him! Fuck! Bobby! It’s not Dean!”  
  
As the other three ran up, Sam rolled the man over and gasped.  
  
“My God.” Ellen put her hand to her mouth.  
  
“Jesus, boy.” Bobby took a knee, checking his pulse.  
  
Sam’s devastated eyes searched the figure. “Dean,” he said at last. Dean bore little resemblance to the man Sam had seen just days ago—now skeletally thin, his head coated in blood and filth. “Is he breathing?” Bobby said nothing. “Bobby, is he breathing?”  
  
The older hunter swallowed and nodded. “He’s breathing, but we need to get him out of here and back to the Doc’s.” Bobby adjusted his hat and bent close again, twitching his nose with a shudder. “Good god, what’s that smell?” Both Ellen and Sam recoiled from the stench.  
  
Florabel, who’d remained silent the whole time laughed through her tears. They turned to her as though she’d lost her mind. Her agonized eyes filled with love as she caressed Dean’s brow.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Sam asked.  
  
“The smell.” Florabel smiled at an old memory. “I’d forgotten.” She shook her head with a laugh. “It’s skunk oil and turpentine.”


	19. Dust Bowl Refugee

__

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Guns poised, Sam and Bobby swept the room as Ellen ran for the field-stretcher, though Florabel paid little heed to anything beyond the still form before her. Kneeling, she lifted Dean’s lids with gentle fingers, shining her penlight to gauge his responses.  
  
“He’s badly concussed,” she said over her shoulder, never taking her eyes off Dean. Gingerly turning his head, she inspected the impact wound. “Oh Pally…” She winced and rechecked his pulse. “Weak.”  
  
Ellen ran up with the stretcher.  
  
“We need to get him out of here, now,” Sam said. “We can do triage away from the building. We can’t do this here.”  
  
Florabel glanced up. “What are you gonna do about Slaid?”  
  
Bobby spoke as he and Ellen wedged the board underneath Dean, shifting him onto it. “Nothing right now. He’s tied to this place. He can’t follow us. We’re gonna get Dean out of here, stabilize him and then deal with the spirits. We’re gonna have to find their bones and burn them.”  
  
“We’re good. Let’s go.” Ellen grabbed the grips on the stretcher.  
  
“I got it, Ellen.” Sam moved to take the grips.  
  
“Like hell you do. Not with them ribs. You watch our asses.” She waved him off. “Let’s go Singer.” With a nod to Bobby, they lifted Dean with little effort and moved toward the door.  
  
Sam came last, gun sweeping from side to side as he backed out of the building. Before crossing the threshold, however, Florabel heard him gasp and swing his gun around, pointing it at something.  
  
“That’s not Slaid,” he said.  
  
Florabel peered behind her but saw nothing there. “What?”  
  
Sam gripped her shoulders and ushered her from the building. Outside they moved double time. Sam jogged up to Bobby and the stretcher. “I saw one of them back there, but it wasn’t Slaid.”  
  
“Who? What?”  
  
“Just now, inside, I caught a glimpse of one of the spirits—watching us from the corner. When it realized it’d been made, it winked out. I’m not sure, but I think—” He didn’t finished but Bobby appeared to understand.  
  
“We’ll take care of it, kid. First things first.”  
  
They spent only a few rushed moments at the site. Getting Dean away was the hunters’ first priority, and they wouldn’t let Florabel linger. They stopped long enough for her to start Dean on oxygen and get an IV inserted, then they were on the move again.  
  
“You think he rebooted, Bobby?” Sam asked as Florabel tried to get another read on Dean’s pulse while they walked. It was weak and he hadn’t responded to any stimuli since he’d come through the portal. It worried her.  
  
The older hunter sighed, shrugging. “Dunno for sure, but I expect so.” He opened the tailgate. “We’ll get him back. Won’t take two months this time, either. He’s got us to help him. It’ll be all right.”  
  
Bobby hopped onto the bed of the pickup, and in one fluid motion, they lifted the stretcher and slid it in. Once situated, Sam and Ellen crawled into the cab and piled several warm blankets on Dean.  
  
“You ride in the cab with me, Doc,” Bobby said. “It’ll just take a few minutes to get to your place. Come on.” He led her by the hand. “They’ll keep him safe until we get there.”  
  
Florabel gave him a stiff nod. Her concerned eyes went to Dean but then she nodded again. “Right.” She came out of her thoughts and allowed Bobby to help her into the truck. Settling, the old woman turned and watched the activity in the back. Once Ellen gave Bobby a thumbs up, indicating they were good to go, he drove away at a good clip.  
  
Florabel blinked, overwhelmed. It startled her how different, yet, the same Dean looked—as though someone had highlighted all his edges, making him appear crisper and more quintessentially _Dean_ than she ever remembered. She tried to connect this version of the man to the one in her memory. As clear as he’d remained in her heart and mind, the genuine article was far more striking, far more profound. Memories stabbed her, steel-needle sharp. She turned around, facing front but not seeing the road ahead of her.

* *

 _April 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
“Pally, NO!” Florabel screamed as the dust devil writhed, flinging out a hundred threads of light that hooked onto Dean even as he fought to scrabble away. After a fruitless struggle, though, he sagged in defeat, knowing he couldn’t escape, accepting the inevitable.  
  
“Sorry kiddo.”  
  
Florabel heard the words despite the roar of the wind.  
  
Dean stiffened as more whips of light lashed him, and he cried his brother’s name. The ground shook and hummed as the strands of light ran like liquid, spreading over Dean in a huge net.  
  
“Love you, ‘Bel,” he said, his eyes soft and sad.  
  
He gasped, throwing his head back as his body succumbed, bursting into crystal light as the net dragged him into the core of the Cyclone. A few seconds later the structure of the storm faltered and broke apart, collapsing into a few coiled ropes of dust that rained down upon the two onlookers.  
  
Jeb stood frozen, horror and shock rooting him to the ground. Clutching the girl with numb fingers, he stared at the spot where Dean and the dust devil had been. He came to life when Florabel squirmed and flailed against him.  
  
“Stay still, doll.” She continued to struggle until the stunned man released her. Running to the spot where Dean had been, she searched this way and that, as though she expected him to reappear. She picked up the gun that lay where Dean had dropped it.  
  
“I’ll take that.” Jeb walked to her and retrieved the gun. He looked from Slaid where he lay motionless to Florabel sitting in the dust, sucking her fingers, the fire in her eyes extinguished. Jeb reached out to comfort her, but she flinched away. Overcome and stymied by what he’d witnessed himself, the old man let her be, and he aimlessly wandered around.  
  
He worked his way to Slaid, catching sight of the bullet wound in the middle of his forehead. Inspecting the body, he saw a second bullet hole over his heart. The farmhand was beyond help.  
  
“Jesus,” he said, neither lamenting nor celebrating.  
  
He paced around, too shocked to do anything, tottering back and forth between Florabel and Slaid’s body, not knowing what to do about either. At last, Jeb stopped and took stock of the situation. He had two bodies to deal with and no acceptable explanation to give anyone who asked. And there would be questions. Lots of them. The old man examined the gun in his hand. His gun. The gun that had killed a man. He stuck it in his pocket with a nervous swallow. A gust of wind swept through the barnyard, twisting and twirling along the ground, interrupting his thoughts.  
  
Checking on Florabel again, she remained a hunched statue. Wind and dust rolled over her as she sat there, unmoving, blank faced, sucking three fingers.  
  
“You okay, doll?” He picked her up.  
  
Pliant in his arms, she made no eye contact and offered no response to his question.  
  
“Florabel…” He jostled her, trying to get a response, but she didn’t stir. Jeb sighed and held her close. “It’ll be all right, Doodlebug.” He noticed the beginnings of an angry bruise mottling her face, the purple outline of Slaid’s hand. He kissed and petted her.  
  
“Stay here behind the barn, darlin’. Let’s keep you out’a the wind.” He set her down but she padded right back to the spot where Dean had been taken from her and promptly resumed her silent vigil.  
  
“I don’t think he’s a-comin’ back, sweetheart.” He sighed when she didn’t move or give any indication she’d heard him.  
  
The farmer hesitated, considering his options. After a moment he ran and got a shovel from the barn. Searching for a suitable spot out of the wind, he chose a site about ten feet behind the barn and began digging.  
  
Burying Slaid turned into an all-day ordeal. Careworn and weak with hunger, Jeb had to rest often. Keeping the dirt pile from blowing away took constant vigilance and effort. In the end he wound up digging a smaller hole just to fill in the first.  
  
Late in the afternoon, he leaned against the barn for a moment, wiping his gritty brow and keeping an eye on Florabel. She hadn’t said a word from the shock—the loss of both her Mother and Dean having shattered her voice into a million unspeakable pieces. He went to the well and brought them both some water, which she drank greedily, but she wouldn’t speak or face the old man. He hugged her again and tamped the last of the dirt onto the grave. Once finished, Jeb stood at Slaid’s grave, unable to find anything fitting to say, so he said nothing. Shaking his head, he shouldered the shovel and turned to Florabel.  
  
“We need to git a move on.” He surveyed the sky then picked up the child. He collected his few belongings at the bunkhouse, packing them into a knapsack he tossed over his shoulder. Florabel’s right eye had swollen shut, the entire side of her face the color of a dark plum. He guessed she had a concussion on top of everything else. Slaid had been merciless with his fists. Jeb’s fingers quivered over his damaged jaw, hinging it a few times to see if it was broken. It probably was, but he could do nothing about it. He ran his hands through his hair and rose from his cot, offering his hand to Florabel.  
  
“Come on, darlin’. Let’s get you ready to go.” He carried her toward the house and up the porch stairs.  
  
It was only when they reached the door that Florabel came alive. She kicked and squirmed when Jeb went to carry her over the threshold. She thrashed, pushing against him, wanting nothing to do with going into that house.  
  
“It’s okay, Florabel. We’s just gonna git a few things to take with you. We ain’t stayin’ here.” She would have none of it, though. She grabbed onto the door-jam and began screaming at the top of her lungs, her one good eye wide with unthinking terror. Shocked, Jeb held her shaking body, raining kisses on her as he attempted to calm her.  
  
“Okay, doll. Shhh, it’s all right. You don’t have to go in if’n you don’t want to.” He set her on the porch swing. “You wait here. Old Jeb will be right quick.”  
  
Leaving the child swinging her legs, once more docile and indifferent, he went inside, gathering things in a bag. He stopped at the kitchen table and picked up the photograph taken on her birthday, his breath hitching at the hopeful faces smiling back at him.  
  
“Dear God.” His eyes watered as he put it in the bag with a change of clothes for Florabel.  
  
By the time he shut the front door, the sun sat low on the horizon, wind pushing plumes of dust to the south. They’d have to walk fast to beat the sunset. Glancing down, he noticed Florabel had fallen asleep. Running his hands through her hair, he called her name. Her good eye snapped open and she sat up, bewildered—expectant. A fraction of a second later the light in her eyes dulled as everything came back to her.  
  
“Oh, Doodlebug.” He rubbed her back. “Come on,” he held out his hand, “let’s go, darlin’.”  
  
Obedient, she took his hand, and together they walked along the path, through the silent barnyard and onto the road without glancing back.  
  
They walked without words. The echoing, clomping scrape of the child’s shoes on the pavement was broken only by the clickedy-click of dead thistles rattling against fence posts on the side of the road. Dust skittered across the pavement in front of them. Jeb’s ears rang with that monotonous, silent roar.  
  
They stopped at a crossroads not far from the city. The hazy sun had set, leaving an orange, dust-infused glow on the horizon. Jeb squatted and thumbed Florabel’s chin, half of her face painted by the filtered sunset, the other half by Slaid’s hand.  
  
“I cain’t go no further.” He cleared his throat and pointed toward town. “They’s gonna be lots of questions I cain’t answer. My gun killed a man. They ain’t just gonna let me go, an’ I ain’t made for that, doll. I lost my boy years ago, lost my beautiful Beth. Lost my farm.” He swallowed. “I’m sixty-three years old. I don’t got nothin’ left but my freedom, an’ I ain’t losin’ that, too. That’s too much to ask a man who ain’t done no wrong.” He drew her close. “Now, I’m losin’ my best two girls.” He ran his hand through his hair and his voice cracked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills. “This is yours, Florabel. It’s all the money your mama had. I took three dollars. I hope you an’ your mama don’t mind none. They’s over fifty dollars, there. You hold that tight an’ hide it away.” He opened her bag and tucked it into a sock, showing her where he’d hidden it.  
  
He stroked the cruel and uncaring mark Slaid had given her. One of many. This, he supposed, was the easiest to heal. Still, he knew she must have a ghastly headache.  
  
“This is the last goodbye you’s gonna have to suffer for a while, Florabel. I promise. It’ll be all howdy-do’s and nice-t’meetcha’s from here on in.” He pointed to the town. “Them’s good folk there. They’ll take care of you. You take this road, here, until you come to Main Street. Go into the big building there and talk to Sheriff Burnett. You can catch a glimpse of it from here, see?” He pointed again. “He’ll see to it someone fetches your mama so she gits a Christian burial.” He hugged her tight and made sure she had a secure hold on her bag before standing.  
  
He motioned toward the town again. “That a-way, sweetheart. Be a good girl,” he said. “Make your Mama, Pally, an’ me proud.” She stood there with the handles of her bag in both her hands. Jeb turned around and began to head west, but Florabel tottered right after him. He stopped with a sad sigh.  
  
“Y’cain’t come with me, darlin’.” He walked her back to the crossroads. “I’m gonna be hoppin’ freights and stayin’ in shanty towns. Ain’t no life for a Doodlebug.” His voice caught, and he choked on a suppressed sob. “Ain’t no life for no one.” He pointed her south, patting her behind. “I hope life treats you proper from here on in, Florabel.”  
  
She spun around, one last time, but he shook his head and pointed toward the town. Defeated, she walked away on stiff legs, lumbering under the cumbersome bag.  
  
Jeb watched her until she grew small in the distance before turning and walking away himself. Dusk had fallen, and the light had all but gone.

* *

 _February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
The flurry of activity when they arrived at the farm both surprised and impressed Florabel. These people worked as a seamless team, each taking on tasks with minimal direction, often times supplying her with items she needed before she’d even called for them. She’d witnessed a lot of emergency rooms with less organization.  
  
They soon situated Dean on the bed she and Ellen had prepared earlier. While Bobby and Ellen set up the heart monitor, Florabel busied herself by starting him on a unit of blood, since his pressure was dangerously low. All these years later, she still remembered the pool of blood on the kitchen floor. Thinking back, she wondered how he’d been able to remain conscious in that root cellar. He’d need at least one unit, but she had several if needed.  
  
“He ain’t rousing.” One glance at his eyes told her he had a significant concussion, but his non-response to stimuli troubled her. “We may need to git him to a hospital. He needs an MRI. This ain’t something you should trust to homeopathy.”  
  
“He won’t wake for a couple of days,” Bobby said. “Getting too close to the elemental causes people to lose consciousness. Causes the amnesia, too. It happened to all those boys it attacked.”  
  
“Really?” Florabel considered the information. “Mama assumed he couldn’t remember because of his fever. Course there weren’t no way for us to know they was anything going on beyond that.” She hooked up an antibiotic drip. “So he ain’t gonna remember anything that happened? He ain’t gonna remember me?”  
  
“We’ll get him back.” Sam said. “He’ll remember everything eventually. He remembered me, right?” He ran his hands through Dean’s matted hair and checked his wound. “This is going to need stitches.” Peeling back a small flap of skin, he shuddered. “Oh God, are those what I think they are?”  
  
Florabel leaned in. “Oh, um, uh…yep. I think so. We’ll clean ‘em out. I told you they was a lot of flies in the cellar.”  
  
“I’m on it.” Ellen sorted through the supplies, grabbing a few items to clean and disinfect Dean’s head wound.  
  
“Jesus,” Sam said, disgusted and overwhelmed with worry. “How are all his vitals, now?”  
  
Florabel checked him, vocalizing her assessment as she went along. “His oxygen level is down.” She listened to his lungs. “He has a lot of pleural effusion, fever of 101.2. We may need to drain the fluids from his lungs.”  
  
Sam fidgeted with worry. He could hear Dean’s lungs rattling like a bong. It sounded painful. “How do we do that?”  
  
“Don’t fret. We can do it right here if’n we have to. We’ll make sure he’s stable, first. If’n he ain’t any better after some antibiotics, we’ll take care of it. He’s doin’ well for what he’s been through. Help me here, Sam.”  
  
She and Sam unhooked the straps of his overalls, easing them down to his waist and cutting off the top of his union suit with scissors. Shifting Dean onto his side without upsetting Ellen’s work on his head, Florabel pulled a sticky wad of bandages away from his shoulder blade.  
  
“Oh my.” She held it up. Sam grimaced at the green, greasy bandage.  
  
“What the hell is that?” Ellen recoiled from it.  
  
“That is proof old wives weren’t no slouches. It’s homemade penicillin.” Florabel said proudly. “It’s my mama’s bread-and-milk poultice. Saved his life when he first come to us with that horrible gunshot infection. People assume Fleming discovered penicillin. _Discovered_ —my ass. Women’s been makin’ poultices for hundreds a’years. They just didn’t get no Nobel Prize for it.” She examined Dean’s shoulder wound. “Most of the stitches have torn. We’ll have to redo those.”  
  
“I can do that.” Sam leaned in for a better look.  
  
Florabel examined the small stitches that still held. “My God. These are my mama’s stitches.” Her mind boggled. “There ain’t no words for this. It’s incredible.”  
  
Bobby came over and held Dean on his side while Sam cleaned the wound and stitched it under Florabel’s keen eye.  
  
“You’re real good at that, Sam,” she said.  
  
“I’ve had lots of practice.” Sam nodded toward Dean’s other scars. “Most of those are my work, and if I lifted my shirt, you’d seen his on me.”  
  
Florabel shook her head, patting Sam. “I can tell you boys take real good care of one another. Pally’s gonna be okay.”  
  
Sam eyed her between stitches. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why do you call him _Pally_?”  
  
The old woman chuckled. “It was my special nickname for him. I knew we was gonna be great friends from the git-go. He was my _pal_ , y’see? And a’course he didn’t even know his name when he first woke, so I gave him one.”  
  
As she sat, her eyes watered. “It’s so strange. When I was a young’un, he was this tall, strong, larger-than-life man. He was so old and so wise.” She caressed his head. “I look at him now an’ I see a boy. A young, tired boy.”  
  
She turned to Sam. “Ain’t that odd now—how your perception changes?” Withdrawing her hand, she set it in her lap. “I cain’t imagine how scared he was, how disorienting everything must a’been for him. He never let on. He was the truest of souls. Kind hearted and patient in every way.” She blushed and swallowed her emotions. “Half the time that poor boy wore me like a hat. I had such boundary issues. I was forever crawlin’ all over him, usin’ him as my own personal jungle gym. Hangin’ on to him like a monkey. He let me, too. His lap was always open to me.” She paused. “I loved him so.” A tear escaped and she wiped it away. “For him that was yesterday. For me—” She stood. “He’s doin’ fine at the moment. I’ll be right quick. Then, we can put a few stitches in his head now Ellen’s cleaned it,” she said with an unsteady voice as she hurried from the room.  
  
“Should I go check on her?” Ellen asked in the silence that descended.  
  
Bobby waved her off. “I’d give her some privacy.”  
  
“It must be tough.” Sam blew out a cleansing breath. “Even if it was for a little while, he was her father, or her father-figure, at least.” He went on sewing and then stopped. “She’s kind of like a sister to me, in a way.” Bobby raised an eyebrow. “We both had the same father.” He felt a pang of empathy for the old woman. “I can’t imagine what it would have been like to lose Dean when I was seven years old. I don’t even want to think about it.”

* *

 _February 14, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Florabel opened the door just after 5:00am. Dean’s oxygen levels hadn’t been encouraging the last time she checked an hour ago, so she’d gotten everything ready to perform a Thoracentesis.  
  
Folded into a chair as he watched his brother, Sam startled when she came in.  
  
“Scrubs?” He pointed to her attire and sprang to his feet. “What’s wrong? What are you doing?”  
  
She watched the monitor. “I ain’t likin’ these percentages. Only 85%, and he’s on pure oxygen. That ain’t encouragin’.” She cocked her head toward the door. “Why don’t you go wash up and we’ll do the puncture now. It won’t take long, and he’ll do better once we’re done.”  
  
“Okay.” He made his way to the door and stopped. “How bad is this gonna be?”  
  
“Don’t fret, Sam. It ain’t too invasive a procedure. We’re just gonna give him a poke and drain the fluids. We can even have a good chat while we do it. I got lots of questions for you.” She pointed to the door. “You go on, now. The quicker you wash, the sooner this’ll be done.”  
  
“Of course.” He left the room with one last worried glance at Dean.  
  
Florabel waited for the door to close then padded to the bed. It was the first time she’d been alone with Dean since he’d returned. She took a seat on the edge of the bed, taking Dean’s hand in hers.  
  
“You ass.” Florabel stroked his forehead with a sly grin. “You sneaky bastard. You never said a damn word to me about this…about any of it.”  
  
She stroked his cheek and remained silent for a moment until she noticed her withered fingers against his smooth, youthful skin. The old woman recoiled, studying her hand, age-spotted and knotted with arthritis. Florabel placed it on her cheek, feeling the dips and swells as she explored wrinkles that had not existed the last time they were together. She sighed and closed her eyes. Settling her hand back on his, Florabel opened her eyes and studied his face.  
  
“I missed you, Pally. I cain’t tell you how much. That day, Pally—” Florabel stopped and pursed her lips, struggling. “Seein’ you like that. I cain’t…I cain’t tell you. You know, I ain’t never loved no one like I loved you. That’s a fact. I ain’t ashamed to say it. You was everything to me.” The old woman sighed. “I hope you don’t think unkindly of me, but part of me wishes you never got your memories back. I wish Slaid had fallen off the face of the planet and you and Mama and me had been a family. I ain’t trying to take away who you are nor undo what really unfolded, but—” She shrugged. “Part of me still wishes you remained my papa. Sometimes. Like I said, I ain’t tryin’ to take away what really happened.” She gave him an enigmatic smile.  
  
“Back then, a’course, I dreamed of it for a long time, you know? In them first months at the orphanage in especial, I would lie in bed and imagine my life so different. Spendin’ time with you in my thoughts, playin’ marbles with you in my imagination, milkin’ Penny, feedin’ Molly with you and Mama by my side—even Old Jeb—it got me through those first months. When I imagined where you might ‘a gotten to, I never once imagined this.” Her eyes flitted around the room. “How could I? I had no idea you was gonna practically fall into my arms all over agin. Cheeky Pally.” Her smile wavered and she took a steadying breath. “And here you are just like that first day. I hope my doctorin’ is a little better, now.” The old woman stroked his fingers—exactly the way she remembered them. “Funny what folks recall, ain’t it?” Florabel touched the nail-beds.  
  
“You ain’t got nothin’ to fret about, Pally. You’re gonna be all right. I’ll see to it.” She snorted and gave him a wink. “Expert care. I promise.” She released his hand when the door opened. Rising from the bed, she flipped on the overhead light and removed the shade from the bedside lamp.  
  
“I’m ready.” Sam closed the door behind him. “What do you need me to do?”  
  
“First thing, we wanna git him out’a these filthy clothes.”  
  
Sam sniffed. “Right.” He slid down the overalls bunched at Dean’s waist and chuckled as he pulled them off.  
  
“What?” Florabel asked.  
  
“He’s wearing overalls.” Sam twitched and swallowed his grin. “I mean, I saw the picture, but this is so much more…awesome.” He noticed the long underwear and quirked an eye. “What the hell is he wearing underneath?”  
  
“What? Ain’t you never seen a union suit before? They was still a chill in the air in the mornings that spring. And Pally was cold all the time from not eatin’ enough.” That wiped the smile right off of Sam’s face.  
  
“We’ll fatten him up, Sam” she said. “I raise some of the best beef in the state. I have waiting lists of people who want to buy it.”  
  
Sam went to toss the overalls into a chair and stopped. “What’s this?” He pulled out a thick, brown bottle from the pocket of the bib and cocked his head, reading the crude label. “Tincture of Opium?” He held up the bottle for Florabel to see.  
  
“I don’t believe it.” Florabel took the bottle, marveling at it. “I put that there. Wow. I ain’t seen this stuff in years and years.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
Florabel wiggled an eyebrow. “Laudanum.” She opened the bottle and sniffed it. “It’s been called _Liquid Heroin_ by some.” Sam’s eyes grew large. Florabel nodded in agreement as she studied the bottle. “It’s several times more powerful than Morphine. Hell, it weren’t even used that much in the ‘30’s, but Doc Dawson made it hisself. Grew the poppies in a hothouse behind his office—pot too. Ain’t sure where he come by the wine during Prohibition, but by the time Pally come to us that was over with.” She squinted to see how much remained. “Doc Dawson prescribed this for my papa. An’ Slaid nearly killed Pally with it right after the storm.”  
  
She shook the bottle, listening to it swish before setting it on the bedside table. “I remember the first time Mama gave Laudanum to Pally.” She shuddered. “He didn’t like the taste none, but it settled him down but quick. It’s one hell of a powerful painkiller.”  
  
“It’s like he walked right out of a history book.” Sam kept his eyes on his brother.  
  
“He purty much did.” Florabel gave Dean a small pat. “Let’s git him tooken care of, here.”  
  
Sam tugged the union suit off of him, leaving him in his boxers. “Now what?”  
  
“We’s gonna have to sit him up and swing his legs off the side of the bed. Normally you have the patient lean on a table, but we’ll just have you hold him. You think you can do that with them ribs?”  
  
Sam nodded. “I can do it.”  
  
“You sure?” She saw him wince as he bent over his brother.  
  
“I’m fine,” he said. “I can do it.”  
  
Florabel admired his determination. She’d knew she’d never be able to talk him out of it now. “Okay.”  
  
They got Dean up and in a loose hug, laying his head against Sam’s shoulder, making sure to put no pressure on his head-wound.  
  
“There we go,” Florabel said. “You sure you’re comfortable enough in this position?”  
  
“I’m fine. I’m worried about him. He’s so goddamned light. He must have lost thirty pounds at least.”  
  
The old woman patted his back and walked around to the other side of the bed. Readying a long needle encased in a tube with a large plunger at the end, she made a small incision behind Dean’s rib and inserted the tubing, extracting the needle once she was in. The plunger filled with a rose-tinged liquid. “There we go.” She nodded, satisfied. “Once we git this out’a him he’ll feel a lot better when he wakes.” Taking a liter bottle she hooked it to the tubing and let it fill. “We’ll let that run until it’s full up. It’ll take a few minutes.”  
  
“A whole liter?” Sam asked, incredulous.  
  
Florabel raised her eyebrow. “At least, maybe more.”  
  
“Jesus.” Sam adjusted Dean in his arms as he settled in for the wait.  
  
Florabel sat on the bed, watching the fluid run into the bottle. “So, this is what Pally did before he came to me and Mama? You all hunt monsters?” she asked. “Real monsters?”  
  
“Yes,” Sam said. “We were investigating a vengeful spirit when this all happened.”  
  
“Slaid?”  
  
 “Yes.”  
  
“So, you mean Pally came to this town and wound up hunting a spirit that he created seventy-two years ago?”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam grinned. “For us that’s your average Tuesday.”  
  
Florabel blinked, her mind blown. “Pally didn’t remember nothin’, except bits and pieces. What he saw scared him. Disturbed him. Is it that awful?”  
  
Sam’s shoulders sagged. “It can get pretty bad sometimes.”  
  
Florabel turned the bottle in her hands. “I thought Slaid was a monster—a real monster—like a shade or ghoul. Ain’t it interesting that he wasn’t, and, yet, Pally didn’t like Slaid from the git-go? I guess even though he couldn’t remember things, he still had a feeling about him.”  
  
“Spidey sense.” Sam smiled.  
  
“Spidey sense?”  
  
“It’s what Dean calls it. He usually knows who can and can’t be trusted. It’s a gift he has…or a skill he’s cultivated over the years. He’s always had to carry too much responsibility. It made him super-aware of his surroundings. He had to be. He was always protecting me, looking out for me.”  
  
“So he’s the one that took care of you after your mama died?”  
  
Sam squinted, confused. “How did you know about our mother? I thought Dean couldn’t remember anything.”  
  
“Oh,” Florabel hesitated, “Ellen and I had a little talk. I hope you won’t be mad at her for gossipin’.”  
  
“It’s fine.” He sat silent a moment and then went on. “But, yeah, he raised me after our mother was killed.”  
  
Florabel switched containers, letting a second liter fill. “So, you been doing this for your whole life?”  
  
“Pretty much. A demon killed our mom, and our dad spent the rest of his life trying to hunt it down.” He shifted, his lips tightening into a thin line. “He died some months ago. Same demon got him.” He said nothing for a while, then, “Dean’s looked out for me my whole life. I have a lot to repay.”  
  
“You an’ me both.” Florabel touched Sam’s arm. “So let’s give him some payback now, hmm?”  
  
They sat quiet for a few moments while the rest of the fluid drained. They got almost two full liters off his lungs.  
  
“There.” The old woman unhooked the tubing from the drainage container. “That’s gonna make him feel heaps better. Though,” she warned, “he may always be prone to lung problems from here on in. You’ll have to keep that in mind. He’ll likely remain susceptible to chest colds and other pulmonary ailments. A lot of Dust Bowl survivors have chronic lung problems. Luckily for him, he spent no more’n a few months there.”  
  
 “I’ll watch him.” Sam promised her.  
  
“I know you will.” Florabel eyed him as he adjusted Dean in his arms. “Hold him good and high for a moment while I get this out.” She waited until Sam had Dean in a better position before removing the tubing with one fluid motion. “There.” She daubed at the small puncture wound and put a band-aid on it. “That weren’t too bad, now, was it? Let’s git him settled. That’ll make him a lot more comfortable until them antibiotics kick in.” She checked his eyes and put some drops in them.  
  
“What’s that for?” Sam asked as he snaked an arm around his ribs, supporting them after holding Dean so long. He winced as he sat.  
  
“You all right, Sam?”  
  
“Yeah.” He nudged toward Dean. “What did you put in his eyes?”  
  
“Just keeping them flushed and moist. He has some small abrasions on his corneas from the dust storm.” She motioned to his eyes. “Dust got in ‘em. It was pretty bad. He could’a gone blind from it, but Mama and Old Jeb spent that whole night tending to his eyes, washin’ ‘em out real good.” She read Sam’s pinched face. “Don’t fret, honey. He has his sight. His eyes is healin’ nicely. Things’ll be a tad blurry for a week or so, but he’ll be fine. The concussion will likely have more immediate effect on his eyesight an’ balance. But he should bounce back from that, too, as long as it’s just a concussion we’re dealing with. We’re more’n a little gimped here without proper tools.”  
  
“He’s had concussions before, we both have. So, I know what to do.” Sam sighed as he looked at his brother. “I just hope he wakes up soon.”

* *

 _February 16, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Dean didn’t wake that day or the next. Although his fever had abated and the antibiotics seemed to be doing their job, Florabel worried about his concussion. The three hunters agreed that if he didn’t regain consciousness by the following day, they would get him to a hospital.  
  
In the meantime, Bobby and Ellen resumed the hunt. Florabel could only provide them with a vague idea of where Jeb had buried Slaid. They’d been pouring over construction blueprints and old land surveys to try and get their bearings and pin down the most likely areas. They didn’t want to dig too many empty holes. Even without the wind demon, the site was still a hazard. By overlapping the blueprints with the old surveys, they were able to determine that Slaid’s grave lay just outside the new building, about ten to twenty feet away from where the back wall had collapsed.  
  
While that went on, Sam and Florabel tended Dean. Florabel filled Sam in on Dean’s time with her and her mama, as much of it as she could remember. Sam had listened, taking it all in, saying nothing—except when she told him about the barn dance.  
  
“Square dancing? Are you serious?” Sam laughed, a full-on, straight from his belly—guffaw, the first laugh Florabel heard come out of him since he knocked on her door. “Oh, man. What I wouldn’t have given to see that!”  
  
“Well, he was terrible at it,” Florabel chided with a grin. “He could’a been great. He had the agility and the rhythm. He was just stubborn and unwilling to learn. Willfully ignorant.” She laughed, settling in the rocking chair by the bed. “But he knew how important it was to me, so he done it. Not well, certainly not happily, but he done it.”  
  
Sam sobered and remained quiet while he studied his brother, so thin and small in the bed. “He used to do the same for me. When we were kids, anything I’d take an interest in, he’d be right there to support me, helping me run lines for a school play or going through flash-cards of mathematical proofs and formulas he had no particular interest in beyond _my_ interest.”  
  
Florabel nodded. “I can tell that about him. I may not have had years with him, but it didn’t take long to know the kind of person he was.”  
  
“Right,” Sam sat, lost in thought a moment and then looked up. “It takes a day to know Dean.” His voice fell to a whisper. “And a lifetime to understand him.” He rubbed his temples. “He humbles me. And he infuriates me.”  
  
Florabel sat and rocked. “Sounds about right.”  
  
Sam scooted his chair closer to the bed and took his brother’s hand in his. “C’mon, Dean. Man, open your eyes.” Sitting up, he took off the amulet hanging around his neck and weighed it in his hand. “Here, Dean.” He removed the oxygen mask long enough to put the amulet around his brother’s neck. “I’ve kept it safe for you.” Sam smoothed Dean’s hair away from his brow. “You’re past due for a haircut. You’ll be pissed when you wake.” Sam bent close. “Wake up soon, okay?” He kissed Dean’s brow and grinned. “Don’t give me that look, Dean,” he said to his brother’s unchanged, lax face. “This was a weird hunt, even for us. Chick-flick moments every hour, on the hour, until you open your goddamn eyes.”  
  
Sam sat a while longer. Getting no response he closed his eyes in defeat and sighed. He opened them a moment later and gasped.  
  
“About damn time, Dean.” A smile lit Sam’s face.  
  
His brother’s eyes were open.

* *

 _February 17-18, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
The pattern went on as before. Dean remained catatonic for the rest of the day, while Sam kept up a one-sided conversation the entire time, attempting to stimulate his brother. Bobby and Ellen had begun some excavation but had not yet found any bones. After another day, Dean began to come around somewhat and appeared to be listening, though he remained silent. Sam continued the running dialogue for his brother, helping him to remember how to form words, prompting his memory with stories from their childhood and recent hunts. Much of what Florabel heard stunned the old woman who sat listening, saying nothing.  
  
Toward sunset Dean cleared his throat. “Time?” Sam wasn’t sure if it was a question or not.  
  
“Hey! Hey Dean.” Sam spoke through a huge smile, breathy with emotion.  
  
“It’s after 6:00pm. We’re still in Boise City, still on that hunt for the vengeful spirit, remember?” He saw Dean’s breath catch and he closed his eyes. “Breathe deep, man. It’s okay. I know those visions are disorienting and strange. Just ride it out. You’re doing well. You’re okay.” Dean opened his eyes again.  
  
“You with me?” Dean gave Sam a vague, confused nod. “That’s good, man.” Sam gripped his hand. “You got bit by a wind demon, got too close to it, and it messed with your head a bit. That’s why it’s so hard to remember anything. Just that roaring wind, right?” Dean squinted, surprised. He nodded again. Sam stroked Dean’s hand, holding it in his firm grip.  
  
“I know, man. It happened to me, too. It sucks. But we got lots of people helping us. Bobby’s here. And Ellen, too…and another friend.” Sam searched his brother’s face. “This ringing any bells?”  
  
And so it went on for several hours, Sam anchoring Dean as he led him through their life together, each memory causing Dean to flinch and gasp as detached visions rocked him.  
  
“You’re getting it, man. You’re doing great,” Sam told him.  
  
Dean followed Sam’s lips as he spoke. He appeared to be searching for something, a word or a concept. “Wh—who?”  
  
“Me? I’m Sam. I’m your brother.” Dean flinched, retreating behind his lids with a groan. Florabel moved closer to make sure he wasn’t in any physical distress.  
  
Sam continued his monologue. “Easy, Dean. Don’t fight it, man. Let it come back on its own.” Dean’s eyelashes fluttered open. “And, man, I can’t wait. It’s been hard without you around, you know?” Sam’s breath hitched, and his face fell. It took him a while before he spoke again.  
  
“You’re the one thing I count on,” he said. “I’ve been kinda lost since you’ve been gone. We all have. Bobby and Ellen—they’re our friends, Dean—they’ve been worried sick. You remember Bobby, don’t you? Hell he’s been around as long as I can remember, he’s like a dad to us. Hey, do you recall that one summer we were staying with Bobby, back when…I don’t know… back I when was about eight years old? We made that fort out of old car gizzards—that’s what you called them—just a bunch of old seats and trunk panels. We worked on that thing for days. You were so damned proud of that secret compartment you built into it, big enough just for me to get in. You made it in case we ever needed a hiding spot. You wanted me to have a safe place to be.”  
  
Dean twitched and closed his eyes.  
  
Sam held onto his hand and squeezed. “Yeah, you see it, don’t you? You’re doing great, Dean. You’re getting there. You want to slow your breathing, though. Really Dean.” He put his hand on Dean’s chest. “You need to take some deep breaths. Just go with it.” He waited a moment, allowing Dean to ride out each wave. “There you go. That’s better, man. You wanna take a break? We can just relax for a while.”  
  
Shaking his head no, Dean flinched from the sudden pain.  
  
“Yeah, that hurts,” Sam said. “You got hit in the head, but you’re going to be okay.”  
  
Sam sighed. “It’s been a long few days. Well, a lot longer for you than for me,” he said wryly. “We didn’t know where you were, Dean. I’ve never—” he faltered, “—I’ve never been so scared.” Sam took a few quick breaths. “But we found you. You’ve got some injuries, but you’re gonna be fine.”  
  
Dean blinked, his eyes drooping toward sleep.  
  
Sam rubbed his brother’s chest. “You’ve got to get better. You’re going to want to be moving on to the next hunt, just like you always do. You’re going to be insufferable, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He laughed, his eyes glistening with tears.  
  
“You’ve got to snap out of it, though. What will _Baby_ think if she assumes you don’t care? You remember her, don’t you? She sure misses you, man.” Sam pulled out his cell and flipped through some photos. “See?” He showed him a photo Sam snapped of Dean goofing off with the Impala, sprawled against it in a spacious, enthusiastic hug. Dean looked at the photo and grabbed the phone, squinting to try and bring it into focus.  
  
“Wha’ th’ fuck?” His eyes bounced from the photo, to Sam and back. His face morphed from confused to surprised to all-out overwhelmed. He slumped against the pillow, panting. Sam grabbed his shoulders. “Ffffffuccckkk!” Dean screamed.  
  
“I gotcha, man. Hang on. Hang on, Dean!” Sam tried to calm him. Dean whimpered and wheezed as the memories flowed into him, some of them so strong and violent his body rippled and writhed with the trauma. “I know. I know it hurts, Dean.”  
  
Tears ran down Dean’s cheeks as he continued to let loose a non-stop, colorful chain of invectives. “Jesus fucking shit! Oh, shit Sammy! Oh fuck! Oh shit fuck Jesus Sammy fuck!”  
  
“You’re safe, Dean. I’m right here,” Sam said. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
After several moments Dean’s breathing returned to normal. He gasped and opened his eyes, focusing and refocusing as he grabbed a fistful of Sam’s shirt. Emotions relay-raced across his face.  
  
“Sammy?” He squinted at his brother.  
  
Sam smiled through his tears. “Welcome back, big brother.”


	20. Gonna Git Through This World

__

_February 18, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Florabel caught only snatches of their conversation. Sam kept himself bent close to Dean, protective and private, talking in a calming, hushed whisper, answering questions and striving, no doubt, to keep his brother on an even keel. Dean’s hand flexed into a fist as the whispering became more animated. The heart monitor spiked as Dean fought to rise.  
  
“Sammy, Sammy, just listen to me.” Dean’s raspy voice grew agitated, stressed.  
  
“Shhhhh. It’s all right. Don’t move, Dean.” Sam shushed him, drawing soothing circles on his brother’s chest.  
  
Dean grabbed Sam’s shirt, pulling him in and then pressing against him earnestly. “We have to go back. I gotta get her. I can’t leave her there!” He licked his bone-dry lips with an equally parched tongue. Sam grabbed a glass of water from the nightstand and helped him drink, cupping Dean’s hands as he fisted the glass, gulping the water down.  
  
“We banished the elemental, Dean. There’s no way back.”  
  
“No, Sammy! No!” Dean struggled to sit up again, sloshing water as he fought to rise. Sam set the glass on the nightstand. “She’s all alone. Please help me. We can bring her here. I’m begging you, Sammy. Please!”  
  
“Dean, There’s no way back, man.”  
  
Dean pushed him away, and as he sat up, he noticed the old woman for the first time. He blew out a puff of air, startled and embarrassed, allowing Sam to guide him back down.  
  
“Who’s that?” he whispered, taking in his surroundings. “Dude, where the hell am I?”  
  
Sam ran his hands through his hair, stalling, perhaps trying to buy himself some time. “Uh, this is Mad Dog, Dean. You remember? Gerry told us about the doctor who owned the land where they were building the mall. Doc’s been helping us. This is her place.”  
  
Dean stole a quick glance at Florabel and then peered at Sam. “I thought Mad Dog was a dude.” Sam raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Dean snatched another groggy peek. “Why’s she staring at me?”  
  
Before Sam could answer, Florabel took control, walking over and putting her hand on Sam’s back. She gave it a pat, silently telling him to move. The young hunter rose and moved away, gripping his nape nervously. Florabel took his place and made deliberate eye-contact with Dean. His discomfort grew palpable, and his eyes wandered everywhere except to her. She took his hand, even though he tried to shrink away from a stranger’s touch. Looking at him for a long, penetrating moment, she smiled. At last she spoke.  
  
“I’m starin’ at you ‘cause you’s the most handsomest man I ever did see, Pally.” She gripped his hand, sandwiching it between hers, anchoring him as her words and voice penetrated. She studied his face, holding his hand, nodding her confirmation to the question he couldn’t quite bring himself to verbalize but that flooded his eyes.  
  
“’Bel,” he said at last, his eyes filled with regret and self-reproach.  
  
“’Bout time you woke up. I ain’t never met anyone who sleeps so much as you.” She patted his hand and reached up to snag a tear as it dripped from her eye. “We been waitin’ days.”  
  
“No.” The heart monitor squealed a warning. “No. Oh God. I left you there. I left you all alone.” He turned his head away, tears of shame in his eyes.  
  
“Pally…” He didn’t answer. Florabel adjusted the heart monitor, stopping the shrill squeal. “Pally, don’t be that a-way. You mind me, now.” He flinched at that and met her eye. “Pally, listen to me. I’m all right. You saved me.” She snapped her fingers forcing eye-contact when he attempted to shift away. “You saved me, Pally. You killed that monster, and I’m alive because of you. I don’t want you to fret no more about it.”  
  
His chest heaved and his throat constricted. “Emma.” His eyes went wide as he remembered. “Emma.”  
  
“I know.” Florabel stroked his arm. “I know it hurts. I miss her, too. But you done everything you could to help her.”  
  
“My fault.” He collapsed against the pillows, overcome with grief and shame. “Left her alone.”  
  
“Whoa, no sir. Don’t you do that, Pally. You left her to go find me. If’n I hadn’t a-run off, Slaid wouldn’t ‘a got to her. But,” she shook his shoulder, “look at me, Pally.” He pulled his hand away from his pained eyes and turned toward her. “But Slaid would’a found a way, if not at that moment, then later. Slaid killed Mama. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked.  
  
“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t be your papa. I wanted to be. I’m so sorry, Bel.” Tears trickled toward his ears and he struggled to master them.  
  
Florabel thumbed his hand, squeezing it. “Weren’t meant to be, Pally. It just weren’t meant to be.”  
  
She ghosted her fingertips against his forehead and cheek. He blinked, slow and drowsy—still concussed and disoriented.  
  
“I’m all right, though. I done grew up, and I became a doctor just like you said I would.” His eyes met hers, and she smiled at him. “And I had a baby girl. A beautiful, spirited, gorgeous girl. Feisty little thing. So I had the family you wanted for me.”  
  
She searched his exhausted eyes, knowing he ached for the child he’d cradled in his arms by that tree just a couple of days ago, but who now sat before him, stooped and fragile with age.  
  
“I know I ain’t that little girl no more, an’ I know you miss her. But she’s in here.” She pointed to her heart. “She’s here, Pally, an’ we found each other agin. We found each other after all these years. I didn’t think I’d ever see you agin in this lifetime. You don’t know…” She faltered. “You don’t know how much I wanted to see you, to talk to you, and here you are. You’re here, and I’ll take whatever I can git. You understand me? I’ll take this moment and I’ll be grateful for right now. To hell with what I did or didn’t have. So just you git lots of rest,” she said, seeing his eyes dull with sleep.  
  
“Sleep, Pally, and when you git better we’ll be able to catch up good and proper.” Dean’s eyes began to cross as he struggled to keep them open. He gripped her hand a moment, confused.  
  
“You leaving?”  
  
“No.” She smiled at him. “But your concussion is fogging you up a bit. Don’t think on it. Just close your eyes and when you wake, I’ll be here.”  
  
“Good. M’glad you’re here.” He sighed, gazing at the old woman through eyelashes curled at half-mast. “Jeb, too?”  
  
Florabel stroked his arm. “Naw, Pally, Old Jeb ain’t here, but wherever he is, I know he’s thinkin’ kindly of you.”  
  
“He’s a cool dude.” His eyes closed as sleep stole him away.  
  
“He sure was, Pally. He sure was.”

* *

_February 20, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Dean slept the better part of two days. The brief times he did wake, he remained disoriented, slow to respond and to understand. At one point he asked Sam how he’d managed to travel all the way back to 1935 to find him.  Sam repeated things as often as Dean needed, even when it broke his heart to do so.  Twice, he had to tell him Emma was dead, and twice he regretted it.  Florabel worried that Dean had a skull fracture, advising them he should be in a hospital, but as the second day wore on, he roused and appeared far more lucid and present—and typically ‘Dean’—demanding he be allowed to join the hunt for Slaid’s bones.

He squinted, trying to focus on the paper in front of him, snapping the pen down, disgusted with his lingering double-vision and sluggish focus.  “This sucks, Bobby.  It would be so much faster if you just let me go with you.”

“You know the rules, kid.  Friends don’t let friends hunt concussed.  In your case we’re likely talkin’ about a busted melon.  Don’t need X-rays to tell us something’s cracked in there. You’re supposed to be watchin’ my ass out there, not fillin’ it full of salt because you’re too dizzy to shoot straight.” 

“C’mon, Bobby.   I was concussed a lot worse when I turned the bastard into a vengeful spirit.” Dean folded his arms.  “Bet my aim was fuckin’ awesome, too, all things considered.” 

“Well, you’re benched for the time being, just the same.  You’re still coughin’ up black goo, not to mention all the hardware you’re attached to.” Bobby motioned to the IV and heart monitor.  “Hell, you ain’t even pissin’ vertical yet.  No way you’re hunting.  You stay put for now, Tom Joad.”

Dean pulled the covers up around his chest with an indignant huff.  “Lame, Bobby.  And quit callin’ me that!”

Bobby’s lips twitched.  “You prefer Pa Kettle?”

Dean produced an impressive bitchface of his own.  “Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny. And at least you’re well enough to gripe.  That’s a good sign. Besides, we can’t do anything until we find the bones.”  He bent over the crude map Dean had been trying to draw.  Despite his condition, Bobby knew Dean’d be able to supply them with far more accurate information than they’d find on any survey maps.  “So,” he gave the paper a tap, “you said you were standing about thirty feet from the side of the barn when you shot him?” 

Dean gave his grudging attention to the map. “I was here.” He blinked, opening his eyes wider, trying to focus as he pointed.  “Slaid was no more than thirty feet away, toward the back of the bunkhouse.  Florabel says Jeb buried him about ten feet from the south-east corner of the barn.” 

“That’s right.” Florabel looked at the map.  “I remember he had a terrible time keeping the dirt pile from being carried away when the wind clipped the corner of the barn.  He finally had to dig a second hole to git enough dirt to fill up his grave.”

“Well, we’ve dug a couple of test holes and have come up with nothing.  Do you know how deep it was?”  Ellen asked.

“I don’t recall much about that day.” Florabel shook her head.  “I know it was over Old Jeb’s head, because I remember one time thinking he’d left, too, but then I saw dirt come flyin’ from the hole.  Dunno how tall the man was, everyone was tall to me back then.  They still are.  I reckon he was a few inches shorter than Pally.  So, I guess the hole was standard sized.”

Bobby gave his neck a good rub.  “All right.  We’ll try and match that with the current blueprints and see if we can’t do another test dig.”  He cleared his throat, his voice dipping.  “We also need to take care of the other one.” Dean’s eyes narrowed.  “We could do that one first and then find Slaid. We know where that one’s buried, at least.”

“Bobby…” Dean’s voice went low and dangerous.  “No.”

Bobby lifted a brow but kept his timbre gentle.  “It has to be done, son.  You know that.” 

“What?” Florabel’s asked. “What’s goin’ on?”  Nobody said anything for a moment.  “What needs to be done?”

Sam came forward and put his hand on Florabel’s shoulder.  “There are two vengeful spirits at the site.” 

She craned her neck to meet his eye.  “You mean the other one that connected to the elemental with Slaid?”  Sam nodded.  “Okay, so’s we need to find out who his friend is and then salt an’ burn the bastard, right?”  
  
He gripped Florabel’s shoulder. “We’re pretty sure we know who it is.” Sam’s eyes flitted to Dean who shifted in the bed.

Florabel blinked at him. “Okay, who is it?” Sam didn’t answer, but she read it in his face. She looked at Dean who confirmed it, meeting his devastated eyes before he averted them. “Mama? How do you know it’s her?”

“We don’t for sure,” Bobby admitted. “But after hearing your story. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m sorry.”

Florabel tried to grasp the concept. “Mama’s a ghost? She’s vengeful?”

“Well, she has an understandable reason to be.” Ellen offered her arm as they sat Florabel in the rocking chair.

“But—but…” She shook her head. “You mean she’s been there all this time? She didn’t go to be with Papa and Henry? Why would she do that?”

“We don’t know why some spirits linger and others don’t. We do know it’s more likely to happen to folks who’ve had violent deaths,” Ellen said. “They have unfinished business, or they’re upset their lives were taken. Maybe she thought to stay behind to protect you. Ain’t no real way of knowing. But after years of a spirit hangin’ on like that, they go crazy from it all. That’s when they become dangerous.”

Florabel’s eyes welled. “But, Mama wouldn’t hurt no one. She’d never do that. Not ever.”

“She’s been controlling the wind demon with Slaid,” Bobby said. “And people have been hurt, Florabel. She probably ain’t what you remember her to be anymore. Vengeful spirits don’t see things the way we do. They’re in so much pain they just lash out. They ain’t in their right minds.”

“What’s gonna happen to Mama when you burn her bones?”

“We don’t know for certain,” Ellen told her. “Some folks think they finally move on to where they should’ve gone when they died. Some folks think it’s death for a ghost. But no one knows for sure.”

“No. No! Pally, no.” The old woman’s eyes filled with desperate tears. “Don’t let ‘em. Don’t let ‘em kill Mama. She ain’t done nothin’ wrong. You cain’t. I’m beggin’ you, please.”

Dean cleared his throat. “We won’t touch her.” The other hunters gaped at him.

“Dean…” Sam said.

“No.” Dean cut him off, his jaw set. “We won’t touch her until this is over. You hear me?” His eyes stabbed like jade daggers as he glared at each hunter. “The very least we can do is put Slaid down first. Once he’s gone, if she won’t move on, if she’s really…” He couldn’t say it. “Then we’ll take care of it. But not before.”

Bobby sighed. “All right, Dean. We’ll wait. But if she needs to be put down, we’re gonna have to do it. From what you tell me, Emma—the real Emma—wouldn’t want this. We owe it to her as much as to anyone else. She’d expect no less.” Both Dean and Florabel slumped at that, acknowledging the truth in his words. “We won’t do nothing until we know for sure.” He moved to the door.  
  
Sam rose as well. “I’ll go with you and help.”

“No need right now, Sam,” Ellen said. “We’re just gonna do a couple of test-digs and see what we find. If we come up with anything we’ll give you a call. Until then, stay put and rest. You’re not 100% either.”

“Wait, what? What’s wrong with Sammy?” Dean sat up.

“It’s nothing, Dean.” Sam glared at Ellen. “Just a couple of bruised ribs from the Cyclone.”

“Broken ribs.” Bobby corrected him.

“Whatever. Same difference.” Sam rolled his eyes. “They’re healing. I’m fine.”

“Let me see.” Dean pushed the blankets off as a wave of vertigo hit him. He tipped over, nearly spilling from the bed. “Shit.”  
  
Sam ran to him, catching him before he dropped. “Dean!”

“I’m good. Dammit. Get off, dude.” He shoved Sam’s helping hand away. Sam got him settled against the pillows.

“Lie still until it passes, Dean. C’mon, man.”

“This blows!” Dean’s hands curled into fists as he gulped in air. Gripping his blanket, he yanked it up in frustration. “Can you all just leave me alone?”

Bobby turned to Ellen. “All right. We’re heading out. Sam, you stay here with your brother. We’ll call if we find anything. Hang in there, son. Things will get better soon.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said with mopey indifference.

“Okay, let’s give Old MacDonald some space. Come on, folks.” Bobby ushered them out with a cheeky grin. “Ee-I, Ee-I, Oh. Now, move it.”

“Dammit Bobby…” Dean growled. Bobby gave the others a self-satisfactory nod that said _my-work-here-is-finished_. He closed the door as Dean drifted off.

* *

Dean woke with a start. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock, grunting with frustration as he tried to focus. “It’s 10:42pm.” Florabel sat in the rocking chair by the bed.  
  
Dean sighed, rubbing his crusty eyes again. “Where’s Sam?”

“He left.  Bobby called an hour ago an’ said they’d found a bone with their test-dig.  He ran off to help.  Looks like Slaid’s gonna git his comeuppance tonight.” She snorted.  “Couldn’t happen to a more deservin’ man.”

“Shit.” Dean sat up with a huff, flinging out his hand to steady himself.  “Dammit!”  He waited a moment for his vision to clear.  “Do you have a cell phone?”

“What would I need one of them for? I’m home most of the time.”

“Right.” Dean squinted at her.  “Do you have any phone?”

“Course I do.  I dunno as it’ll reach, though.  Let me try.”   Getting up, she left the room and returned, dragging a long cord behind her.  She handed the clunky relic to Dean.  “Good thing I bought that extra long cord.”

“Rotary?  Seriously?” Dean studied the antique in his hand.

Florabel shrugged.  “It works, don’t it?”  Dean raised his eyebrows and dialed Sam’s number.

“Pick up, dude,” he said, nibbling a fingernail.  “Come on!” He disconnected and dialed Bobby.  He waited a moment and then hung up.  He tried Sam one more time.  “Sonofabitch.”  His eyes bounced around the room.  “I don’t suppose Sam left any clothes for me, did he?”

Florabel shrugged again. “I don’t think so.”

“Sonofabitch—fuck—shit!”

“I washed your overalls and shirt. What do you want clothes for?”

“Do you have a car, Florabel?” He picked at the tape on his IV.

“Uh, well…yes.  What are you doing, Pally?  Leave that be.”

“They aren’t answering their phones.  That’s bad, Florabel.  That’s very bad.  I need to get over there.  Can I borrow your car?” He peeled off the heart-monitor pads, but when he went to get up, he didn’t get halfway before he pitched to the side.  Florabel steadied him.  “Sonofa…”

“Just stay put, Pally.  Your brain is still all catawampus.”

“I’ve got to get to Sam, dammit! I have to get there, Florabel.  I can’t let Slaid…”  Their eyes met, and she nodded.

“Okay, Pally.  Okay.  Hang on a spell an’ let me help you. I’ll git you there.” 

“Oh God.”  When he went to get up, he noticed a slender tube running from underneath the covers.  “Please tell me you didn’t put that in me.”

Florabel chuckled.  “I’m a doctor, and I’m damn near eighty years old, Pally.  I think I know what a penis looks like, by now.”

Dean twitched, humiliated to the core.  “Kill me now...”

* *

“Holy shit, Florabel, when did you get this?” Dean pointed to the pristine 1946 Chevy Half Ton Pickup in her garage. He tried not to lean against the old woman as he maneuvered into the garage, but he had to put his hand on her shoulder to steady himself a couple of times.  
  
“I bought it when I got out’a medical school. He was old, but he was in good condition, and he was affordable.  
  
“ _He_?”  
  
Mm-hmm, this is _Buddy_. He’s been with me fifty-four years. One of the longest relationships of my life.”  
  
“You named your truck?”  
  
“Uh, well…,” she faltered. “I…every car needs a name.” She crossed her arms. “Don’t you agree?”  
  
Dean grinned. “Actually, I do.”  
  
“Well I don’t drive him much no more.” She opened the door. Dean swayed and gripped the door handle to right himself. “This ain’t a good idea, Pally.” Florabel steadied him as much as she could. He towered over her, and if he fell, he’d flatten her. “This just ain’t a good idea.”  
  
“I’ll be fine.” He tried to assure her—and himself. “As soon as I sit down I’ll be fine.” Florabel waited until he settled in the seat before shutting the door and coming around to the driver’s side. She stepped onto the running board and climbed into the truck. Sitting, she slothed through her pockets for the keys.  
  
Dean rolled his eyes, ticking with impatience. “C’mon, peddle to the metal, ‘Bel.” So small, Florabel’s head barely rose above the steering wheel. “Wow, before I leave town, remind me to build you a booster seat for this beast. How in the hell are you seeing anything but the dash?”  
  
“I can see fine. Now quit makin’ me nervous.” She painstakingly belted and situated herself. Putting the key in the ignition, she paused, eying Dean. “Put your seatbelt on, Pally.”  
  
“I’m fine.” He brushed her off.  
  
“I’ve seen the results of folks not wearin’ their seatbelts far too often. Now, buckle up.” Florabel sat back in her seat and stared at him. “Or we ain’t a-goin’ nowheres.”  
  
“Oh for the love of—” He grabbed the seatbelt, latching it and pulling the strap tighter. “When did you add these seatbelts? Forty years ago? Fifty? I don’t think they’re gonna do us much good if we get in an accident.”  
  
With meticulous care, Florabel adjusted the rearview mirror, a small Matchbox Dodge Charger, dangling from it.  
  
Dean pointed to it. “What’s this? No fuzzy dice?”  
  
Florabel kissed her finger and then pressed it to the toy car. “That’s m’good luck charm. Keeps me safe.” Watching the way behind her, she eased the truck out of the garage with exacting care. She turned the truck around with fussy precision and began tootling down the road at a blustery 19 mph.  
  
The muscles in Dean’s jaw pulsed, the vein in his forehead throbbing. He cleared his throat. “Um, Florabel? It’s after 11:00pm on a weeknight, in a town no bigger than my thumb. Y’wanna pick up the pace there a bit, grandma?”  
  
“Hush, Pally. Don’t make fun. It don’t hurt to be cautious.” Her eyes remained fastidiously fixed on the road ahead. “I ain’t never had a speeding ticket in my whole life.” Dean released a hissing huffy-puff of air. His right foot pressed into the floorboard. Florabel went on. “I only got pulled over once in all my life, an’ that wasn’t even my fault. Now hush, I got this.”  
  
“Bel, sweetheart…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Does _quick-like-a-fuckin’-jackrabbit_ have any effect whatsoever, anymore?”  
  
The old woman muttered under her breath, but she accelerated to a decent clip.  
  
Dean fidgeted with worry the rest of the way, which, despite his fear and agitation, did not take long. A few minutes after leaving Florabel’s house, they turned into the construction site. “Over there.” He pointed off the road, toward the back of the building. Florabel hadn’t yet swerved when they heard several gunshots.  
  
“Hurry.” When Dean went to grab his gun, he realized he didn’t have it. “Shit!” He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them as Florabel came to a stop.  
  
“Oh no!” she gasped as Ellen sailed past the windshield, thrown by an unseen force. As she flipped through the air, her sawed-off flew from her hands. “What’s happening?”  
  
“Trouble.” Dean spied the spirit by the freshly dug grave. Opening the door, he misjudged the distance and spilled out, landing on his knees.  
  
Using the door for support, he rose and took in the scene. Bobby stood, feverishly reloading his salt-gun while calling to Ellen where she lay in a heap a good ten-feet behind them. She groaned and rubbed her head. Deep in the grave, Sam tossed shovelful after shovelful of dirt in a frantic drive to uncover the rest of the bones. Slaid’s specter materialized a few paces away from the hole, residual energy from the wind demon coursing up and down his arms.  
  
“Sammy! Look out!” He called to his brother. Florabel stepped around the truck, coming behind Dean to give him what assistance she could.  
  
“Slaid!” Dean spat the name.  
  
The ghost turned and released a bumptious laugh, unconcerned. “Be with you in a moment, Devil Fighter.”  
  
He raised his right hand and pointed at Bobby. The gun leapt from the older hunter’s hands and went sailing into the prairie grasses. Bobby curled into a protective ball as Slaid sent a blast of energy his way. Bobby’s cap flew off as he landed, not far from Ellen.  
  
“Bobby!” Getting no answer, Dean approached Slaid, his hands held up in a placating gesture. “Slaid…” He stole a quick peek at Sam, making eye contact, the younger brother indicating to keep Slaid occupied. “Slaid,” Dean said again as he and Florabel crept forward. “Just want to talk to you a moment.”  
  
“Ya, talk. No gun this time, Devil Fighter.” His mouth creased into a rigid sneer.  
  
“Right,” Dean said. “No guns. I just want to talk.”  
  
“I see you still have my whore.” Slaid cocked his head, pointing at Florabel. Dean froze at that, standing erect. He felt Florabel’s hand on him, trying to keep him calm.  
  
“Don’t call her that.” Dean stepped in front of Florabel, pushing her behind him.  
  
The farmhand shrugged. “Whore, slut, bitch. It’s all the same.” He looked Florabel up and down. “I can see her. I can see her life—how many times she’s been fucked.” His eyes fell on Dean. “But I had her first. No matter who she fucks. I had her first.”  
  
“So what?” Dean stole another glance at Sam, who was digging like mad, periodically stooping to toss another bone into the pile. Dean’s attention snapped back to Slaid, goading him. “She never willingly gave herself to you. Never cared for you. Never wanted you. Never loved you.”  
  
Slaid’s eyes blazed. “She would have, if you had not turned her from me.” His hands flared with electric light.  
  
“No.” Dean continued to provoke him, trying to give Sam the last few moments he needed. “Not a chance in hell, pal. You weren’t good enough for Florabel or Emma. You were nothing but a batshit, crazy loser.”  
  
Through his peripheral vision, he saw Sam jump out of the grave and douse it with lighter fluid. Florabel’s breath hitched as she watched Sam strike the match. Her eyes widened in anticipation, tipping off Slaid.  
  
An undulating, adrenaline surge of blue energy pulsed through him. Lifting his hand, a shockwave of power and electricity flew at Sam, dousing the match as it fell and tossing him through the air.  
  
“Sammy!” Dean had no time to react further, because another flick of Slaid’s hand had him sailing toward Florabel’s truck.  
  
He heard Florabel gasped as he struck the grill and fell to the ground with a grunting thud.

“Oh Pally, no!” She turned to run to him, but Slaid released a thin, veiny strand of energy, freezing her in place. She stumbled to her knees.

“At last, little whore.” Slaid grinned.  He bent close as she struggled to turn away from his face, her breath smoking a frosty white as she met his eyes, pleading.

“Please, no,” she whispered hoarsely. Begging him.

“Slaid!” Dean hissed. He struggled to his feet but soon found himself on the ground again. “Don’t you fucking touch her!” Unable to find his balance, he crawled toward them.

Slaid paid no heed to the hunter, his focus bent on the woman before him. “You will learn to love me, little one.” A strand of energy leapt from his hand and struck her face. She cried out in pain.

“C’mon you sonofabitch! Too afraid to come get me, huh?” Dean slung insults as he stumbled toward the duo, but Slaid continued to press against Florabel. Small rivulets of electricity rippled over her body as she bucked in pain.

“Get away from her!” Just as Dean grabbed a hold of Florabel’s coat, Slaid’s back arched as though he’d been struck, and the dead farmhand let go of her. Florabel slumped into Dean’s arms, and her eyes went round as they fell to the ground as one.

She patted Dean, indicating she was all right, but Slaid took their attention again. He bellowed in anger and pain as a large filament of white light stabbed him from behind.  They followed his surprised glance as he looked back to see what had hit him.  And there stood Emma, so clear and unhesitant that only her lucent form told them she wasn’t corporeal. In her hands, she toyed with a ball of malleable energy, making to throw it at the farmhand. 

“Don’t you touch my girl, Slaid.” Her voice resonated with hatred.

“You?” Slaid laughed.  “You are the quiet one who’s haunted my steps all this while?”  His lip quirked in a derisive sneer.  “I thought it was the little whore I stole from her mother.  What was it you called her?” He turned to Florabel.  “Lizzy?”  The old woman gasped.  Slaid’s eyes sparkled as he pinched his fingers against his lips like a chef describing a delicacy. “She was so delicious…so beautiful. Too bad she had the good sense to move on, ya?” He inched toward Emma.  She flickered and disappeared, reappearing farther away.  Slaid, laughed.  “Why did you hide?  Had I known it was you, we might have been able to play much together. ”

“All the more reason to stay hid.”  The light around her glistened like tears when she moved.  “Now you git away from my child, or I’ll—”

“What?”  Slaid roared with laughter.  “I control the Hala.  I still have its power.”  Electricity sparked at his fingertips and ran up his arms.  “See?  You cannot harm me. Let me bring the little one to us.  We can be a family, now.  All together.  Ya?”

“Never,” Emma said.  “Not then, not now, not never.  Ain’t you noticed I learned to control that demon, too? I got as much of its power as you.  Probably more, since I didn’t spend it tryin’ to hurt folks.”  She made brief eye contact with Dean as he crawled to the side, sidling his way to the grave. 

“Let’s test it, ya?”  Slaid knelt by Florabel. “Come here, little one.”  Light crackled and pulsed from his splayed hands as he prepared to spend his remaining power on her. 

Reaching the grave, Dean growled when he realized he had no matches. He glanced over to Sam who sat up, shaking his foggy head, trying to clear it.

“Sammy.” He held out his hand, nodding.

Sam blinked at him and then understood. The young hunter fumbled though his pocket and threw the packet to Dean. 

Both the book of matches and Slaid’s hands flared at the same time, and both the hunter and the farmhand released their flames simultaneously.  Dean watched the arc of the burning matches aimed at the bones and the arc of Slaid’s bolt of energy aimed at Florabel.  An instant before Slaid’s blast hit the old woman, Dean heard the soft whhhump of bones igniting. Slaid peered down in surprise and watched his astral form immolate from his feet up, scorching the bewildered disappointment off his face as flames consumed him.  The bolt of energy fizzled out inches away from Florabel.  
  
A thundering calm descended upon the construction site, the silence broken only by the crackle and pop of Slaid’s burning bones.  
  
Dean collapsed onto his side.  
  
“Dean!” Sam ran to him. “Hey, hey—stay awake, now.” He gathered Dean into his arms. “Jesus Dean. Open your eyes.”  
  
Dean blinked at Sam. “He gone?”  
  
Sam huffed. “Uh, yeah. You killed him—again. Y’big damn hero.” He shook his head at Dean. Dean gave him a feeble thumbs up and relaxed into his arms, panting in pain.  
  
Over in the taller grasses, Bobby found his feet and hobbled his way to Ellen who lay not far away. He knelt and checked her pulse.  
  
“You better pop a breath-mint before you even think of givin’ me mouth-to-mouth, Singer.”  
  
“I ain’t givin’ you mouth-to-mouth, woman. You’re fangs are too sharp.” He smoothed her hair back with care. “How many fingers?”  
  
“Three.” She gave the correct answer. “And that’s how much whiskey I want when we get gone. Give me a hand.” She reached for Bobby. Limping, they joined the others watching Emma where she stood by Slaid’s grave.  
  
Emma approached the brothers and bent down to Dean, her eyes soft and serene.  
  
“Dean, I cain’t say I’m sorry enough. I didn’t know. I didn’t know we flung you through the storm until after it happened. I never meant to hurt no one, you least of all. I was just tryin’ to stop Slaid from killin’ folks. I think maybe I done more harm than good, though.  
  
“Emma—” As she drew near, his breath misted with cold despite the warmth in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”  
  
She regarded him with her characteristic kindness. “For what, Dean? You done nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“I couldn’t…” He faltered. “I should have saved you.”

Emma shook her head. “You was busy savin’ my baby girl. You know I’d have it no other way. You couldn’t ‘a stopped Slaid that day.” Dean cast his eyes down, too ashamed to face her. Emma merely knelt further, drawing his attention away from the ground.  
  
“I always knew you was a good man, Dean.” She pulled back, getting a full view of him. “But now I can see you so much clearer than I ever could. You got a soul-shine that’s bigger an’ brighter n’the sun, Dean. I ain’t never seen something so brilliant before. It’s so beautiful an’ pure. You done the best you could, an’ you saved my baby girl. I cain’t ask for more ‘n that.” Her eyes caressed him.  
  
“Don’t be sad. Henry and Red is expectin’ me,” she said, beaming. “I waited so long.” She went to touch his face but stopped just short. “Thank you, Dean, for everything.”  
  
He couldn’t answer, too overwhelmed. Unconsciousness tugged at him, his strength and resolve to resist all but gone. He gave her a slow nod, wilting against Sam.  
  
“You rest up, Dean. The world needs you fit an’ strong.”  
  
“Sam…” Emma smiled at him. “He was lost without you. I’m so glad you found each other agin. Keep him safe.”  
  
Sam swallowed and nodded. “I will.”  
  
She gave Dean one last soft glance before turning to Florabel as the old woman rose to her feet.  
  
Emma’s blue eyes became deep wells of love and loss as she approached her daughter. “Baby girl.”

“Mama.”  
  
As Florabel said the word, Dean watched seventy-two years melt away, and he saw a vulnerable little girl standing before her mother.

“Mama.  You ain’t vengeful no more?”

Emma smiled.  “I weren’t vengeful toward no one but Slaid.  When he killed me, he passed some of the demon power to me. I don’t even think he ever knew he done that. I couldn’t let him hurt you.  Then when you left, I stayed to make sure he didn’t hurt no one else. I was afraid you’d come back. I had to make sure you was safe. I had to. So I took that power he gave to me, and I used it to hide and to try and stop the demon when he summoned it.”

“I’m sorry for what I said that last day, Mama. I never wanted…”  Her lips quivered and tears spilled down her cheeks.  “I never wanted those words to be our last. I’m—I’m so ashamed, Mama. So ashamed.”

“Baby girl…” Emma’s eyes filled as well.   “You think I held on to them words?  They was left right there on the floor that day.  I never took ‘em with me.  But I got every ‘I love you’, you ever said, and all your little jokes and your silly ways right here.” She pointed to her heart. 

She stood back and took a long look at her daughter.  “You growed up _so_ beautiful, Florabel.  I always knew you would.  Look at you. I’m burstin’ with pride. I can see your life and all the good you done, and even the hurts you took on.  My baby girl.”   A silent conversation passed between the two women.  Emma stirred, lifting her hand.  She couldn’t help but try and reach out to her child.  Her eyes pooled with sadness when the hand passed through Florabel, making no contact.  “I’m sorry for your sufferings, for what Slaid done to you, and for everything else that ever hurt you.  I wish I could ‘a been there for you, and…” She paused as though reading her daughter’s thoughts.  “My granddaughter?”

“Yes, Mama.  I had a little girl.  I named her Emeline after you.”  Florabel broke down in spite of her best effort.  “You should see how beautiful she is, Mama. You’d be so proud.”

“I am. I’m proud of both of you.” With weary eyes, Emma looked at the others gathering around and sighed. “I think I’m ready to go, now.” She turned to Florabel again. “Don’t cry, baby girl. I’m so happy to be free.” She tilted her face to the stars. “Me and Papa and Henry will be waitin’, whenever you git here.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be too much longer, Mama.” Florabel’s words were wet with tears.

“Maybe not. But you ain’t done just yet.” As Emma blew a kiss to her daughter her chest exploded into a starburst of light. Despite its beauty, the bystanders shielded their eyes. When they opened them, Emma was gone.

And Florabel Livingston stood, small and fragile, amidst the prairie grasses and wept without reserve.


	21. So Long, It's Been Good To Know Yuh

__

_February 21, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
Florabel entered Dean’s room on stiff legs, carrying a steaming bowl on a tray. Setting it on the nightstand, she took a seat in the rocking chair next to the bed and watched him for a long moment. Lost in a deep sleep, Dean twitched an eyelid when Florabel smoothed his brow and brushed back a wayward lock of hair. The old woman did a small double-take and chuckled at memories.  
  
And suddenly, Florabel Livingston was seven years old again. She smiled her naughty, naughty smile, and, lifting her hand, she ever so gently placed her finger against one of Dean’s nostrils, blocking it. Without waking, Dean swatted her hand away, letting out a disgruntled woof. Florabel bit her old lip to keep from laughing. She cocked her head, plucking a small feather from his pillow, fluffed it, and then ran it along his jaw. Dean snorted with sleepy exasperation and scratched his chin with clumsy fingers.

“Quit it, Florabel.” His lids never opened.  
  
She whickered at him, unable to hold back. Dean opened his eyes at that, and Florabel noted his inability to mask the briefest moment of disappointment when he realized the child he expected to see wasn’t there.  
  
She deflated. “Not the version you was hopin’ for?”  
  
He feigned complete ignorance, raising a dissembling eyebrow. “Hmm?” Blinking, he eased a second pillow behind him and cleared his throat. “Where’s Sam?”

Florabel didn’t call him on it. She understood. “He’s sleepin’.” Leaning into the chair, she stretched her aching muscles. “Bobby’s down the hall watchin’ over Ellen. She has a mild concussion.” She pushed Dean back as he began to rise. “But she’s gonna be fine, Pally. Just let her git some rest. Everyone’s gonna be fine. We’re all bumped and bruised—a little stiff and sore—but we’re all just fine.” She reached for the bowl. “Here, now. I brought you some food. You’re gonna have to start eatin’. You’re naught but skin an’ bones.”

“It smells good. I’m starved.” He sat up, interested. “What is it?”

“Why, it’s jackrabbit broth, a’course.” She lifted a spoonful to his lips with a deadpan shrug.

“You’re shitting me.”  
  
Seeing his distress, she couldn’t help but break character. She gave him a cheeky smile. “Of course I’m shitting you.” She laughed at him. “I ain’t et a jackrabbit in close to seventy years.” She lifted the spoon again, but he backed away with a dubious curl of his lip. “It’s _beef_ broth, silly. I raised the cattle myself. 100% grass fed, organic beef.” She pressed the spoon to his lips. “Top of the line, Pally. Now open up.”

“Fuck, that tastes good.” After a few mouthfuls he stopped. “This is just so surreal.”  
  
“What is?” She offered him another spoonful, but he shook her off.  
  
“Seeing you again. Like this. It’s…it’s different. I can see _her_ in there, sometimes, I think, hidden deep in those blue eyes—but she’s mixed in with—she’s been changed by this whole lifetime of other things I wasn’t a part of, and…” He trailed off. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just surreal.”  
  
Florabel huffed out a small chuckle. “You don’t even know the half of it, Pally.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Mean?” She clicked her tongue. “It means I’m an old woman. I got me one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, with senility betwixt the two. An’ here I am a-sittin’ with the only man I ever really loved other than Papa, a man who hasn’t aged a single day in seventy-two years, a man who probably still has dust from Black Sunday in cracks and folds that ain’t respectable to talk about. I’m sitting here feeding him beef broth after he burned the bones of the monster who dogged my steps as a child and gave me nightmares for years. To top everything off, last night I said goodbye to my mama’s ghost seven decades after she died. Oh yeah, it’s more’n a little surreal.”  
  
“Geez, I don’t remember you being so cranky.” He winked at her.  
  
“Douchenozzle.” She tossed him a wicked grin.  
  
He lay quiet for a moment, again searching for the child he said goodbye to just days ago. As before, he saw her most recognizably in those big blue eyes. “What happened to you, Bel?”  
  
“Me? What do you mean?”  
  
“That day…after everything happened. What happened after I left?”  
  
“Oh…” She relaxed the bowl into her lap and sat quiet for a moment. “Old Jeb buried Slaid and then packed me up and walked me to the edge of town. Told me to go see the Sheriff. I never did see that sweet old man agin. Dunno whatever become of him. He was so shook up about everything. Didn’t know which way was up, really. Not that I was much better off. Hell, I was probably worse. But still, I hope he got on all right. He was a goodly man. I ain’t never forgot him in all these years.” She glanced at Dean with sad eyes. “After that, I walked to the town. Don’t remember too much about that time. I was in shock. They packed me off to an orphanage in Guymon. They couldn’t git me to talk the whole time I was there. Almost put me in the state hospital, thinkin’ they was no hope for me. Dunno what would ‘a become of me if’n that had happened. But one day a few months after Mama died, Pauline and Jack Crawford come to visit me, and they brung me back to their farm. They was broken over the loss of Lizzy…”  
  
“Lizzy!” Dean’s eyes sprang open. “That reminds me, what was Slaid talking about?”  
  
“Oh…oh, Dean. I thought Mama told you about her.”  
  
“Told me what?”  
  
Florabel hung her head, sighing. “Lizzy was lost the night of the barn dance, right before the big storm. After we left that night, someone took her or she wandered off. Ain’t no one ever found her nor no hint of her.”  
  
“Oh god, the storm…” Dean’s eyes snapped shut. “Slaid summoned it. It wasn’t a natural storm. It would’ve required a powerful sacrifice to summon that kind of power from the demon.”  
  
Florabel nodded. “I always wondered if he done it. Weren’t no way to find out. But after last night, I guess we all know, now.” She straightened herself in her chair, composing herself. “That poor, beautiful child. I pray Slaid didn’t make her suffer…that he didn’t…” She broke off, looking away.  
  
“I’m sorry, Bel. I’m so sorry he did that to you.” Dean grabbed her hand and held it tight. “I’d give anything to have protected you from that.”  
  
Florabel gripped his hand, swallowing her emotions. “He didn’t break me. I wouldn’t never let him break me. He took the people I loved most from me. I wouldn’t let him take my spirit. I just hope he didn’t touch Lizzy. I pray he didn’t never touch her like that.”  
  
She released a tired, heavy-hearted sigh. “And poor Mama Pauline. She never recovered from losing her, not completely. But she was Mama’s good friend, and she wouldn’t leave me in that orphanage. She brung me back, and we bonded so tight because we’d both lost folks we loved. I didn’t talk for the first little while, and the Crawfords, they didn’t force me none—not like them folks at the orphanage done. But it didn’t take long before I was talking up a storm agin. Gittin’ to go to school done wonders, too. Mama Pauline walked me to school every morning and was waitin’ outside to bring me home each afternoon. She became like a mama to me, an’ I ain’t never gonna be able to repay the debt of their kindness. Papa Jack worked extra hard so’s he could pay the taxes on both farms, and on my eighteenth birthday, they turned the title over to me, never askin’ for a dime. They was good people. Papa Jack died in ’85, and Mama Pauline followed him the very next spring.” Her smile shook. “They’s with Lizzy, now.”  
  
She spooned the broth in the bowl absently. “They took real good care of me, Pally. They treated me like one of their own. Then ‘round about ten years after I come to be with them, just before I left for college, Mama Pauline finally had another baby—a little boy they named James. He’s Matt Crawford’s papa, the one whose story in the newspaper brung you and Sam here in the first place. Funny ain’t it?” She met his eye. “How we was all connected without ever knowin’ it.”  
  
“And you never got married?” Guilt crushed Dean, believing that was another of his failures.

“No.” She laughed. “Don’t look at me that a-way.” She continued to grin. “You cain’t fix everything nor wave a magic wand and make life perfect. Life ain’t like that. It just ain’t. But I had a life, Pally. I had a life because you saved me—in ways you cain’t even realize. I become a doctor because of you. I believed I could do it because you told me I could, and I believed in you. I’d ‘a never known what it was like to have my heart broke and not git married if’n it hadn’t been for you. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean…I mean I had a life, all the good and bad mixed together, just like it’s supposed to be. All them experiences—having my beautiful baby girl, or gittin’ the flu one Christmas, an’ havin’ folks pay me for doctorin’ them with sacks of potatoes and spring lambs instead of the cash I needed to make mortgage, then goin’ to Africa on my yearly vacation to treat babies with rickets, malaria, and AIDS—an’ on an’ on an’ on—I had all that…done all that because a’you. That ain’t a bad thing, and I ain’t a-quibbling over not havin’ a man at my side for the whole trip. I had a strange, wonderful life—imperfect, sometimes messy, but it weren’t never boring. I want you to remember that, Pally. I’m okay with it all. So if’n you’re ever in doubt about what I want and don’t got, just remember me sayin’ this.” She wiped a tear from his cheek and he looked away, embarrassed and miserable. “We’ll just blame that on the concussion.” She caressed his arm. “I’m okay, Pally. I promise.”  
  
She smiled and rocked for a moment. “I always looked at the full moon and thought of you, Pally. Every single time I saw it.” Dean sighed at that. “And it helped. It really did.”  
  
Florabel cleared her throat and sat up straight. “Now, here, you have some more broth. You’re gonna hurt an old woman’s feelings.”

* *

 _February 22-27, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
A couple of days after salting and burning Slaid’s bones, Bobby and Ellen said their farewells to Florabel. Ellen was feeling better and was keen to get back to the Roadhouse. The last thing she wanted was to leave Ash in charge for too long. However, she made the boys promise they would stop there before going on to the next hunt.  
  
Sam and Dean stayed on with Florabel for another week until Dean was fit enough to travel. Of course, he spent that entire week being an insufferable patient, and the better he got the more he refused to cooperate, typically mulish all the way.  
  
Soon he was in the garage tooling around, giving both _Buddy_ and _Baby_ tune-ups and wax jobs. Though his vision was much better, he still suffered from headaches and debilitating vertigo at times, but he always shrugged off any help. Working on the cars gave him some independence as he always had something to grip. Florabel spent a fair amount of time out there visiting with him, and Sam could hear them laughing and talking until late at night.  
  
Sam had a keen interest in the organic farm the old woman ran, so Florabel spent a whole day showing him around the place. She’d scaled back in the last few years, but she still spent every weekend in the spring and summer selling her goods at the local farmer’s market.

When she wasn’t visiting with the boys in the garage, Florabel spent a lot of time in the kitchen, Dean’s insatiable appetite keeping her busy as she stuffed him with all manner of comfort foods. At Sam’s suggestion, she and the younger hunter baked a couple of apple pies together, neither of which survived the next two days with Dean in the house.

Sam noticed Dean was transparently upbeat, almost manic, but Sam knew he was masking a deeper sadness and hurt. He especially saw it when Dean stole glances at Florabel when she wasn’t looking. Sam tried to talk to him about it a couple of times, but Dean waspishly told him to fuck off and then went right back to being impossibly happy and charming. Sam didn’t know if Florabel picked up on it and was playing along with him or if she really didn’t see the blatant fakery.  
  
Florabel appeared to enjoy her time spent with Dean. One evening she cajoled him into playing a game of marbles with her. The two of them tacked a yarn circle onto the carpet and hunkered down for a game. Trouble arose, however, when Florabel accused Dean of cheating.  
  
“You’re deliberately handicapping yourself, Pally. I cain’t believe you! I’m a master marble player. You don’t need to _let_ me win! I’ll kick your ass fair and square like I always done. Now play right!”  
  
“’Bel…’Bel…” A rare, genuine smile lit Dean’s face. “I’m playing exactly like I always played with you.”  
  
“That ain’t so, Pally. I always beat—” She stopped and gaped at him. “You mean to tell me you _let_ me win all them times?”  
  
“Aw, come on now, Bel.” He defended himself with a laugh. “You were seven years old. I wasn’t gonna just break your spirit. Fact is, your game’s actually improved.” He gave her a friendly nudge.  
  
“I simply cain’t believe you, Pally.” She looked at him as though he’d just told her there was no Santa Claus. “All right, then.” Her jaw squared with determination before knuckling down and letting her shooter go. “We’re playin’ fair now. You play right, or y’ain’t gittin’ no more pies.”  
  
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Them’s fightin’ words.”  
  
In the end, they played two games, allowing Florabel time to rest in between, since sitting on the floor wasn’t easy for her. Dean beat her soundly both times. Aghast, Florabel demanded a rematch the next time he visited.  
  
And so the days went by, one after another, and though Dean still had some issues with balance, after a week of recuperation, he told Florabel they’d be leaving the next day. Sam watched the old woman put a brave spin on the news.  
  
“I won’t pitch a fit this time, Pally. But they’s cell phones and better ways to git around these days. So you have to promise that you’ll come back and pay me a visit when you can.” Sam saw a shielded heartbreak in her eyes, and he knew she was working as hard as she could not to make a scene.  
  
Dean played right along, pretending everything was fine, chucking her chin. “You know I will.”  
  
Sam doubted very much he’d keep that promise. He knew his brother too well. And it made him sick. Again, Sam took Dean aside and asked him to talk about what was going on in his head, and again Dean pretended to have no clue what he was talking about.  
  
That afternoon the three of them paid their respects at Emma’s grave. Florabel and Dean tidied all three plots belonging to the Livingstons, little Henry forever nestled between his parents. Florabel laid a small bouquet of flowers at each graveside.  
  
“They was all taken far too young.” She tickled her fingertips over her mother’s stone, caressing the engraved name, there. “She was a wonderful mother. I only had eight short years with her, but I learned so much in that time about love and caring for others. She was the most hardworking, unselfish person I ever did know. She taught me grace.” She looked at Dean who avoided her eye.  
  
He bent and set his bouquet on Emma’s stone, clearing his throat as though to say something, hesitating a moment as he steadied himself. Both Sam and Florabel waited expectantly. After an inner struggle, his shoulders drooped and he nodded with a quick sniff. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he turned and walked away. “I’ll be in the car,” he said with a casual glance over his shoulder.  
  
Sam’s cheeks flamed with anger, worry and frustration. He peered at Florabel who had turned back to the grave after watching Dean walk off. “I’m sorry. I don’t’ know why he’s like that sometimes.”  
  
“It’s all right,” Florabel said. “I’ve had a lifetime to adjust. He only just lost her. It’s all so raw and new and he’s hurting. Everyone deserves a chance to mourn.”  
  
Sam sighed. “If only he would.”

* *

 _February 28, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_  
  
The next day Sam and Dean left. Sam didn’t witness Dean’s and Florabel’s final goodbye. He sat in the Impala watching the farmhouse, determined to let them have a private moment. However, he’d only been waiting a couple of minutes when Dean appeared. His brother gave an easygoing wave to Florabel as she stood shaded by the screen door. If Dean could have jogged away, Sam knew he would have. As it was, however, he made his way carefully to the car and slipped into the passenger seat without a word of protest. Sam started the engine but shifted toward Dean before pulling away.  
  
“Everything all right, man?”  
  
Dean gave him a cockeyed, confused look. “Of course, Sammy.” He camouflaged his feelings with a smug grin. “Now, let’s book, dude. I wanna get to the Roadhouse before dark.” Sam gaped at him, compassion, anger and disappointment mingling as his mouth worked soundlessly. Dean gave him an impatient shove. “Dude, if you’re gonna fart, roll down the window and just do it all ready and let’s go. Come on, chop-chop. Let’s get the hell out of here. Time to put this freak-show of a hunt behind us.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “Wow. You’re unbelievable.”

* *

Florabel stared into the darkness. At some point while contemplating her wintered-over wheat field, sunset had turned to dusk and dusk to dark. She never noticed. She blinked and cleared her throat, coming from her thoughts and drawing her thin arms around herself. She felt cold.  
  
After wandering aimlessly around the silent house, she picked up the phone and dialed a number. She studied the wheat field again, waiting for an answer and gasped in relief when she got one.  
  
“Emeline. Thank god. It’s Mama.” She twisted the phone-cord in her fingers and swallowed. “No, everything’s all right. I just—I just wanted to hear your voice, baby girl.” Her own voice quavered despite her best effort. “No, no. Ain’t nothin’ wrong. It’s just been a strange week.” She paused a long moment then began to cry into the phone, trying to find solace and comfort in the soothing voice of her kin. “It’s been a very hard week. But I’m fine. Really.”

* *

 _March 2, 2007—Harvelle’s Roadhouse_  
  
Dean walked from the kitchen juggling three beers, a huge sandwich and half a bag of chips. Sam watched as his brother kept his destination locked in his sights and moved with slow, deliberate steps so as not to lose his balance.  
  
Dean was mending, but he still wasn’t near ready to hunt. The fact that he agreed to stay at the Roadhouse without grousing and bitching told Sam everything he needed to know. Of course Dean kept his artificial smile plastered on his face the whole time. He wasn’t fooling anyone, though, least of all Sam. It worried and annoyed him to no end. Dean needed to deal with what happened. It was like losing their dad all over again, perhaps not on the same scale, but enough to cause Dean to adopt the same spurious façade. Sam could see how off balance his brother was, literally and figuratively.  
  
He watched Dean move across the bar on wooden, jerky legs, eyes fixed on the table the whole way. Sam couldn’t get over the drastic change in his brother in such a short time, going from the solid, well-built frame he’d known for so many years to the spindly legs and arms he saw now in just a matter of days—at least for Sam, anyway. Of course, Sam noted that Dean seemed hell bent on climbing the scale in record time. Once Dean set the plate on the table, he scraped the chair out and sat with an overt, casual huff.  
  
Sam’s stomach took a sour turn when he saw the heart-attack-on-a-plate and the gusto with which Dean consumed it, the elder Winchester pausing only to drink half a beer in one go.  
  
“You have a glob of mayo on your chin,” Sam said over the buzz of the tattoo gun in Ellen’s hand. Sam stared at his brother, incredulous at the gastronomical debauchery taking place across the table. “Didn’t you just have the leaning-tower-of-pizza a couple of hours ago?” Dean took his finger and scooped the mayo from his chin and into his mouth, laughing at Sam’s squeamish face. Grabbing his beer he glugged the rest, released a hearty belch and smacked his lips.  
  
“What can I say? I got a lot’a catchin’ up to do, Sammy.” He patted his tummy. “I’ve been on the Dust Bowl diet for almost three months. ‘Sides,” he tugged his collar down and eyeballed his new tattoo, “my titty hurts.”

“Big baby.” Ellen teased him as she worked. Seeing Dean shove more of the sandwich into his mouth, she shook her head. “You take that food away from my work area, now.”  
  
She shooed him off before applying more ink to the outer flame-bursts around Sam’s anti possession tattoo. Wiping the skin clean of the excess ink, she applied another dab of petroleum jelly to Sam’s chest.  
  
“Aw, geez, Ellen, c’mon m’hungry!” he said with his mouth crammed full. He moved one table away and resettled himself.

Bobby’s head came up from the monitor where he and Ash sat poring over research across the room. “Is Woody Guthrie singin’ the blues again?”

“Oh you’re hysterical. Those names just never get old.” Dean took another huge bite of sandwich.  
  
“They really don’t,” Bobby agreed with a mischievous nod.

Sam winced as Ellen hit a tender spot. “Ow, careful, Ellen.”  
  
“Both of you are big babies.” Ellen snorted without pausing or looking up.

“Seriously, though,” Dean mused. “Tatts ain’t nothin’ once you’ve lived through the Dust Bowl.” He examined the symbol over his heart. “Lemme tell you what—we are some Grade-A fuckin’ pussies compared the people who lived through those times.” He surveyed them in turn. “Hell, the lack of indoor plumbing alone was traumatizing.” He shivered at the memory.

“Tell us about it, Petunia.” Bobby snorted at him. “We all caught a whiff when you came back.”

“Shut up,” Dean said sheepishly. “That was medicine.” He stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth. Sam, who’d been watching his brother, rolled his eyes with a huff. “What?” Dean said around a huge gob of food. “That’s what it was. Did you know turpentine is still an ingredient in Vick’s VapoRub? Look it up.” Dean gave him a haughty nod. “Florabel told me that.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

“You call that talking, Sammy? I call it being a buzz-kill.” Dean pulled on his beer, but Sam rolled his eyes again. “What?” Dean said, getting irritated.

“You.”

“Me? What?”  
  
“I’m not getting into it here.” Sam watched Ellen’s deft fingers work the ink-gun.  
  
“Well, good.” Dean snatched his plate and rose, not bothering to mask his contempt. “Nice chatting with you.”  
  
As Dean passed by, Sam lost his patience. “You think you’re fooling anyone, Dean?”  
  
Dean stopped and turned too fast, losing his balance. He gripped the table, dropping the plate on the floor. The unfinished sandwich upended, scattering lettuce and smearing mayonnaise and mustard. Ellen jerked away from Sam and switched off the ink-gun. “Jesus Christ, Sammy, give it a damn rest, already. I said I was fine. What the hell is your problem?” Dean snapped.  
  
“My problem? _My_ problem?” Sam couldn’t believe his ears. “I’m not the one with the problem, Dean, and I’d like to help you with yours. You’re not really hiding whatever pain you’re in, you know that? Everyone can see it, so why don’t you just admit this whole thing got to you? Admit you miss them. Admit you loved them. Why is that so hard?”  
  
Dean’s eyes turned icy with anger. “Screw you.” He fisted the remaining two beers and stumbled to the door, flinging it open and slamming it shut behind him. The others stared at Sam in shocked silence.  
  
“Why does he have to be that way, Bobby?” He turned to the old hunter, scowling.

Bobby’s eyes flitted from Sam to the door and back. “Probably because not everyone sits on their bed crying into a carton of Ben and Jerry’s while listening to Alanis Morissette.” Bobby bored holes in the young man. “Jesus boy. Y’need to get your hormone levels checked.”

“Bobby, he needs to talk about it.”

“He _is_ talking about it. He’s been talking about it this whole time. Can’t you see that? He’s hurting like hell and he’s lettin’ us all know in his own way. No need to try makin’ him into something he ain’t. He ain’t like you.” Bobby shook his head. “He’s never been that way, and he’s not ever gonna be. You gotta learn some folks need to talk things through, and some folks need to be left alone. The sooner you accept that the easier it’s gonna be for the both of you.”

Sam huffed out a puff of steam, bitchfacing the door. He sulked a moment, then his glare eased, empathy and guilt overtaking him.  
  
“Shit.” He went to get up.

“Not now, Sam.” Ellen grabbed his arm and forced him back down. “Just let him be. There’s makin’ it _worse_ and then there’s makin’ it _worst_. Let him be alone for now.”  
  
Bobby nodded. “And when he comes in actin’ like nothing happened with a big ol’ smile on his face—and that’s exactly what he’s gonna do—you just go right along with it this time. You follow his lead on this one and things will blow over quicker.”

* *

Dean leaned against the door, standing on quivering legs, blowing out frosty blue steam in the light of the full moon. He looked up and took a long drink from his bottle. Screw Sam. What did he know? Dean rolled his shoulders. Yeah, it had been a hard hunt, but that’s just part of the job. He was okay. He was fine.  
  
He stuck his hand in his pocket and a jolt went through him when he felt the small glass bead he’d been keeping there. Taking it out, he eyed the blue marble, studying its swirls and twists.  
  
“I’m okay.” He grasped the marble in his hand and held it to his heart. “I’m good.”  
  
“I’m fine.” He twitched, feeling the threat of tears. Yes, he’d become attached. Yes he had some regrets, but what hunter doesn’t have those? Florabel had grown up well. She’d lived an amazing life and had done great things. So what the hell was Sam’s problem? He rubbed his eyes and refused to acknowledge the moisture on his fingers. He couldn’t very well have stayed in 1935. It wasn’t his time, wasn’t his life. He was better off where he was.  
  
“I’m _fine_.” He put the blue marble back in his pocket. “I’m needed here.” He thought of Sam, thought of the innocent lives depending on him. “What I’ve got ain’t perfect. But it’s as good as it’s ever gonna get. This is fine. Sam needs me.”  
  
His legs refused to support him any longer, and he slid down the door and came to rest on his ass with a thump. Leaning against the door, he opened his third beer and took a long, lulling pull from it. He thought of Emma and her soft voice—so not his type, and yet everything he’d needed at the time. He thought of Florabel and her insatiable enthusiasm for life—remembered her warmth against his chest as he carried her up the stairs to put her to bed. He could still feel the slight weight of her head as it draped against his neck and shoulder, sleepy and trusting. Sure he missed her, missed her laugh, her feisty spirit, but he couldn’t change it back. He wouldn’t change it back even if he could.  
  
“This is where I belong.” He swatted another tear away before it had the chance to fall. “I’m _fine_.” He had a job to do, and he was at peace with that. He was. He’d never be able to work a family into this life. It wouldn’t be fair to them. Sam was all the family he needed, and even putting him at risk was more than he could bear. There was no need to be upset about how things turned out. All things considered, they’d turned out goddamned fine. He didn’t mean to abandon Florabel, never wanted to cause her pain, but she’d come out of it well. She was strong. She was fine.  
  
He lifted his tired eyes, staring at the full moon hanging loudly in the night sky. “I’m fine.” He nodded to himself. “Everything is fine.”  
  
_The End._


End file.
